And coughed, and hemmed, and spoke:
"You'll pardon me, Sir, you're in want of a light,"
Said he, with a bow to me,
And straight producing a braided star,
He struck it against his knee,
And with an expression of much concern,
To see that my weed was right,
He manipulated the light himself,
With a courtesy most polite.
I am one, who is quickly impressed, and won,