Of yellow cornfields, and rich gardens grace
Villas hard by, the scrub of this poor Stray
Would, it might seem, have not sufficed to pay,
As rough ploughland, a yoke of oxen’s keep,
Or meanly pastured half a dozen sheep.
As for potherbs, its thorns as likely would
Have brought forth grapes as a man’s simplest food.
Yet somehow sprang, to share with them the ground,
Colewort, vervain, with, here and there, around,
Lilies, and poppies—scant crop; but not great