Poem by Amy Lowell

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.

1. Lead Soldiers
2. Epitaph of a Young Poet Who Died Before Having Achieved Success
3. On Carpaccio’s Picture: The Dream of St. Ursula
4. The Cyclists
5. A Blockhead

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