Scrub Poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay
Scrub
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.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/24/2024 6:38:01 PM # 1.0.0.1119
This Poem is actually trash.