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.