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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 guide.

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 Prima 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.