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EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY
IF I grow bitterly, Like a gnarled and stunted tree, Bearing harshly of my youth Puckered fruit that sears the mouth, If I make of my drawn boughs An inhospitable house,
Out of which I never pry Towards the water and the sky, Under which I stand and hide And hear the day go by outside,
It is that a wind too strong Bent my back when I was young,
It is that I fear the rain Lest it blister me again.
