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.