A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass

Fringed Gentians

          Near where I live there is a lake
          As blue as blue can be, winds make
          It dance as they go blowing by.
          I think it curtseys to the sky.

          It's just a lake of lovely flowers
          And my Mamma says they are ours;
          But they are not like those we grow
          To be our very own, you know.

          We have a splendid garden, there
          Are lots of flowers everywhere;
          Roses, and pinks, and four o'clocks
          And hollyhocks, and evening stocks.

          Mamma lets us pick them, but never
          Must we pick any gentians — ever!
          For if we carried them away
          They'd die of homesickness that day.