All in the Golden Afternoon: Commonplace Book

      Below is the opening poem for Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland.  This poem has long been one of my favorites, as it accomplishes several things through beautifully woven stylistic language. First, it tells a story. It is a gloriously romanticized story that evokes a sense of wonder and a certain old world charm. Second, it identifies a possible explanation for the origins of the famous tale, which is most interesting because, generally, not many details are known. This is Lewis Carroll identifying the story of creation, if you will, in his own words. It may perhaps reflect an exaggerated version of events, but, either way, it adds another dimension to an already multidimensional tale.

I aspire to write with such fluidity and enchantment, although I suspect it may be rather difficult to learn. It’s important to note that this poem was first penned along with the story in 1862, and his voice reflects the style and prescribed grammar of the time. It is written in high style, that is, the language itself is part of the story, and part of the allure. I have a tendency to write primarily in plain or middle style, and I would like to work towards more comfortably using creative high style.

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 pretense

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 tones 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.

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 wither'd wreath of flowers

Pluck'd in far-off land.