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.
