Marble walls as white as milk, lined with skin as soft as silk, in a fountain crystal clear, a golden apple will appear, there is no key to this stronghold, yet theives break in and steal the gold. What is it?
In camps about the centre I appear; In smiling meadows seen throughout the year; The silent angler views me in the streams, And all must trace me in their morning dreams, First in the mob conspicuous I stand, Proud of the lead, and ever in command. What am I?