XVI

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.

A.E. Housman, A Shropshire Lad
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