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.