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. |