When Flemming saw the little streams, sliding down the mountainside, and leaping, all life and gladness, he would fain have clasped them in his arms and been their playmate, and revelled with them in their freedom and delight. Yet he was weary with the day’s journey, and entered the village more like a way-worn traveller than an enthusiastic poet. As he went up the tavern steps, he said in his heart, with the Italian Aretino: “He who has not been at a tavern knows not what a paradise it is. O holy tavern! O miraculous tavern!—holy, because no carking cares are there, nor weariness, nor pain…”
~(Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Foot-Travelling,”).