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 withered wreath of flowers
Pluck'd in a far-off land.