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All in the golden afternoon full leisurely we glide |
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For both our oars, with little skill, by little arms are plied |
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While little hands make vain pretence our wanderings to guide |
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Our wanderings to guide |
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Ah, cruel three! In such an hour, beneath such dreamy weather |
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To beg a tale of breath too weak to stir the tiniest feather |
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Yet what can one poor voice avail, against three tongues together |
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Against three tongues together |
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Anon, to sudden silence won, in fancy they pursue |
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The dream child moving through a land of wonders wild and new |
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In friendly chat with bird or beast--and half believe it true |
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And half believe it true |
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And ever, as the story drained the wells of fancy dry |
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And faintly strove that weary one to put the subject by |
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The next time--'It is next time' the happy voices cry! |
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The happy voices cry! |
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Thus grew the tale of wonderland, thus slowly one by one |
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Its quaint events were hammered out--and now the tale is done |
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And home we steer |
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A merry crew |
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Beneath the setting sun |
