It nods and curtseys and recovers
When the wind blows above,
The nettle on the graves of lovers
That hanged themselves for love.
The nettle nods, the wind blows over,
The man, he does not move,
The lover of the grave, the lover
That hanged himself for love.
More verses by Alfred Edward Housman
- When I Watch The Living Meet
- The Lent Lily
- In Valleys Of Springs And Rivers
- The True Lover
- On Wenlock Edge The Wood's In Trouble