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.