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.
Amy Lowell
THE SCISSORS-MAN
As I was busy with my tools
That make my garden neat,
I heard a little crooked tune
Come drifting up the street.
It didn't seem to have an end
Like others that are plain;
You always felt it going on
Till it began again.
It came quite near: I heard it call,
And dropped my tools and ran
To peer out through the gate;
I thought it might be Pan.
But it was just the scissors-man
Who walked along and played
Upon a little instrument
He told me he had made.
Now, if you hope to see a god
As hard to find as Pan,
It's sad when it turns out to be
A plain old scissors-man.