Come here, son: look! that leaf is dock,
Beside the dandelion clock.
Wherever stinging nettle grows
There, too, the healing dock leaf blows
As if to show some grand Design
Of Mother Nature, all benign,
Who suffers with her children's pain
And longs to make them well again:
Who cannot but provide relief
As in this sting-removing leaf.
Or are there flowers that can abate
The pain when people love, or hate?
No: men and towns to dust return:
The fires drink up the clouds, and burn.
Oh no, relief is never there.
Come, we must go: and son, beware,
For where the balmy dock leaves stand
Are stinging nettles close at hand.