My oxen wait my service: I depart.”
Then strode he to his cow-house in the mead,
Displeased though meek, and muttered, “Slow of eye!
My kine are slow: if I were swift my hand
Might tend them worse.” Hearing his steps the kine
Turned round their hornèd foreheads: angry thoughts
Went from him as a vapor. Straw he brought,
And strewed their beds; and they, contented well,
Down laid ere long their great bulks, breathing deep
Amid the glimmering moonlight. He, with head