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Poem	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.
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