Here in our little boat, my love and I are borne forward by a breeze while we converse, unnecessarily, with spirits and imaginary friends.

Her only pilot the soft breeze

— by William Wordsworth

Her only pilot the soft breeze, the boat Lingers, but Fancy is well satisfied; With keen-eyed Hope, with Memory, at her side, And the glad Muse at liberty to note All that to each is precious, as we float Gently along; regardless who shall chide If the heavens smile, and leave us free to glide, Happy Associates breathing air remote From trivial cares. But, Fancy and the Muse, Why have I crowded this small bark with you And others of your kind, ideal crew! While here sits One whose brightness owes its hues To flesh and blood; no Goddess from above, No fleeting Spirit, but my own true Love?