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.
