All in the Golden Afternoon
 

 All in the golden afternoon

    Full leisurely we glide;

For both our oars, with little skill,

    By little arms are plied,

While little hands make vain pretence

    Our wanderings to glide.

Ah, cruel Three!  In such an hour

    Beneath such dreamy weather,

To beg a tale of breath too weak

    To stir the tiniest feather!

Yet what can one poor voice avail

    Against three tongues together?  

 
Imperious Perma flashes forth

    Her edict “to begin it” –

In gentler tone Secunda hopes

     “There will be nonsense in it!” –

While Tertia interrupts the tale

    Not more than once a minute.

Anon, to sudden silence won,

    In fancy they pursue

The dream-child moving through a land

    Of wonders wild and new,

In friendly chat with bird or beast –

    And half believe it true. 
 

And ever, as the story drained

    The wells of fancy dry,

And faintly strove that weary one

    To put the subject by,

“The rest next time –”  “It is next time!”

    The happy voices cry.

Thus grew the tale of Wonderland:

    Thus slowly, one by one,

Its quaint events were hammered out –

    And now the tale is done,

And home we steer , a merry crew,

    Beneath the setting sun.  

 
Alice!  A childish story take,

    And with a gentle hand

Lay it where Childhood’s dreams are twined

    In Memory’s mystic band,

Like pilgrim’s wither’d wreath of flowers

    Pluck’d in a far-off land. 

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