More Poems. 32. Their Seed the Sowers Scatter
Their seed the sowers scatter Behind them as they go. Poor lads, ítis little matter How many sorts they sow, For only one will grow. The charlock on the fallow Will take the travellerís eyes, And gild the ploughland sallow With flowers before it dies, But twice ítwill not arise. The stinging-nettle only Will aye be found to stand: The numberless, the lonely, The filler of the land, The leaf that hurts the hand. That thrives, come sun, come showers; Blow east, blow west, it springs; It peoples towns, and towers About the courts of Kings, And touch it and it stings.
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