’What think you, as she lies in her green cove,
Our little sleeping boat is dreaming of?’
’If morning dreams are true, why I should guess
That she was dreaming of our idleness,
And of the miles of watery way 50
We should have led her by this time of day.’-

‘Never mind,’ said Lionel,
’Give care to the winds, they can bear it well
About yon poplar-tops; and see
The white clouds are driving merrily, 55
And the stars we miss this morn will light
More willingly our return to-night.—­
How it whistles, Dominic’s long black hair! 
List, my dear fellow; the breeze blows fair: 
Hear how it sings into the air—­’ 60

—­’Of us and of our lazy motions,’
Impatiently said Melchior,
’If I can guess a boat’s emotions;
And how we ought, two hours before,
To have been the devil knows where.’ 65
And then, in such transalpine Tuscan
As would have killed a Della-Cruscan,

...

So, Lionel according to his art
Weaving his idle words, Melchior said: 
’She dreams that we are not yet out of bed; 70
We’ll put a soul into her, and a heart
Which like a dove chased by a dove shall beat.’

...

’Ay, heave the ballast overboard,
And stow the eatables in the aft locker.’ 
‘Would not this keg be best a little lowered?’ 75
‘No, now all’s right.’  ’Those bottles of warm tea—­
(Give me some straw)—­must be stowed tenderly;
Such as we used, in summer after six,
To cram in greatcoat pockets, and to mix
Hard eggs and radishes and rolls at Eton, 80
And, couched on stolen hay in those green harbours
Farmers called gaps, and we schoolboys called arbours,
Would feast till eight.’

...

With a bottle in one hand,
As if his very soul were at a stand 85
Lionel stood—­when Melchior brought him steady:—­
‘Sit at the helm—­fasten this sheet—­all ready!’

The chain is loosed, the sails are spread,
The living breath is fresh behind,
As with dews and sunrise fed, 90
Comes the laughing morning wind;—­
The sails are full, the boat makes head
Against the Serchio’s torrent fierce,
Then flags with intermitting course,
And hangs upon the wave, and stems