My grocer, now—last week he let me claim
A pound of syrup—'twas a kindly deed
To help a fellow-townsman in his need,
Though harsh the price, and I was feign to crawl
About his feet ere I might buy at all.
But thou—although a myriad flocks may crop
By Sussex gorse or Cheviot's grassy top,
A myriad herds tumultuously snort
From Palos Verdes eastward to Del Norte,
Or where the fierce vaquero's bold bravado