‘All my ships are white,’ said Rhoda. 
‘I do not want red petals of hollyhocks or geranium. 
I want white petals that float when I tip the basin up. 
I have a fleet now swimming from shore to shore. 
I will drop a twig in as a raft for a drowning sailor. 
I will drop a stone in and see bubbles rise from the depths of the sea. 
Neville has gone and Susan has gone; 
Jinny is in the kitchen garden picking currants with Louis perhaps. 
I have a short time alone, 
while Miss Hudson spreads our copy-books on the schoolroom table. 
I have a short space of freedom. 
I have picked all the fallen petals and made them swim. 
I have put raindrops in some. 
I will plant a lighthouse here, a head of Sweet Alice. 
And I will now rock the brown basin from side to side 
so that my ships may ride the waves. Some will founder. 
Some will dash themselves against the cliffs. One sails alone. 
That is my ship. It sails into icy caverns where the sea-bear barks 
and stalactites swing green chains. The waves rise; their crests curl; 
look at the lights on the mastheads. 
They have scattered, they have foundered, all except my ship, 
which mounts the wave and sweeps before the gale 
and reaches the islands where the parrots chatter and the creepers . . .’