Poor ethics, these of mine, I fear;
And yet when our green leaves and sere
Have dropped away, perhaps we'll hear
Some questions answered curiously.
This battered book here on my knees?
Is Herrick, his Hesperides.
Gold apples from the guarded trees
Are stored here not penuriously.
Lyrist of mellow, gurgling phrase,
And quaint thought o' the elder days,