All in a golden afternoon
Full leisure we glide;
For both our oars, with little skill,
By little arms are plied,
While little hands make vain pretence
Our wonderings to guide.

Ah! Cruel Three! In such an hour,
Beneth 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?

Imperius Prima flashes forth
Her edict "to begin with":
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 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 dream are twined
In Memory's mystic band,
Like a pilgrim's wither'd wreath of flowers
Pluck'd in a far-off land.



original text by Lewis Carroll, pen name of Charles L. Dodgson.