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User Rating:
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5.5
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(20 votes)
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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 Inshospitable House,
Out of which I nevery 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 to strong
Bent my back when I was young,
It is that I fear the rain
Lest it blister me again.
Edna St. Vincent Millay
| Submitted Date |
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Monday, January 13, 2003 |
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Read poems about / on: house, tree, rain, water, fear, wind, sky
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