Thomas Hardy — 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.