The Stinging Nettle by Alfred Edward Housman

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.

That thrives, come sun, come showers;
Blow east, blow west, it springs;
It peoples towns, and towers
Above the courts of Kings,
And touch it and it stings.

More from Alfred Edward Housman:

• Loveliest Of Trees, The Cherry Now
• The Carpenter’s Son
• Along The Field As We Came By
• Be Still, My Soul, Be Still
• Here Dead We Lie
• To An Athlete Dying Young