THE NETTLES

This, then, is the grave of my son,

Whose heart she won! And nettles grow

Upon his mound; and she lives just below.

How he upbraided me, and left,

And our lives were cleft, because I said

She was hard, unfeeling, caring but to wed.

Well, to see this sight I have fared these miles,

And her firelight smiles from her window there,

Whom he left his mother to cherish with tender care!

It is enough. I'll turn and go;

Yes, nettles grow where lone lies he,

Who spurned me for seeing what he could not see.