Fools

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  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 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  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 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  It’s quaint events were hammered out - and now the tale is done  And home we steer a merry crew  Beneath the setting sun.