 | Collected poems of 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.
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.
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!
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.
Yes, nettles grow where lone lies he,
Who spurned me for seeing what he could not see.
| Collected poems of Thomas Hardy | |