With seed the sowers scatter

With seed the sowers scatter

The furrows as they go;

Poor lads, 'tis little matter

How many sorts they sow,

For only one will grow.

The charlock on the fallow

Will take the traveller's eyes,

And gild the ploughland sallow

With flowers before it dies.

But twice 'twill not arise.

The stinging nettle only

Will still be found to stand:

The numberless, the lonely,

The thronger of the land,

The leaf that hurts the hand.

It 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.