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.