Gold apples from the guarded trees
Are stored here not penuriously.
The poet of the gurgling phrase
And quaint conceits of elder days,
Loved holiness and primrose ways
About in equal quantities,
Wassail and yuletide, feast and fair,
Blown petticoats, a child's low prayer;
A fine, old pagan joy is there;
Some wild-rose muse's haunt it is.