All, in the golden afternoon full leisurely we glide4;
For both our oars, with little skill, by Little arms are plied,
While little hands make vain pretence
Our wanderings to guide,
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,
Against three tongues together?
Anon, to sudden silence upon, 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,
And half 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, 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…