Geranium

These got planted behind the barber shop over the weekend. 

Eventide

Oh! pleasant is the pathway down
The hill, my senses fairly drown
Themselves in scents of flowers gay,
And sounds of lowing kine, away
In valley meadows, and the swell
Of sweet echoing village bell
Chiming the sunset hour. Afar
I see the last bright golden bar
Of day let down: and now the West
Puts on her twilight robes; the best
Of all the day to me; while in
The wood behind me, the sweet din
Of birds is hushed, for, in their nests, 
Safe sheltered by mother-breasts,
The tiny broods are gathered, there
To slumber 'till the morning fair
Woos their slight wings to tempt the breeze
That rustle thro' the maple leaves.

Rose L. Holden