If I grow bitterly, <br />Like a gnarled and stunted tree, <br />Bearing harshly of my youth <br />Puckered fruit that sears the mouth; <br />If I make of my drawn boughs <br />An Inshospitable House, <br />Out of which I nevery pry <br />Towards the water and the sky, <br />Under which I stand and hide <br />And hear the day go by outside; <br />It is that a wind to strong <br />Bent my back when I was young, <br />It is that I fear the rain <br />Lest it blister me again.<br /><br />Edna St. Vincent Millay<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/scrub/
