It is not icy blasts that freeze my face,
Nor melting snow that makes me seem to cry.
No cloud contained those liquid drops that trace
Their frigid path, 'til they solidify.
I cannot blame the winter for the chill
That hugs my bones too tightly, nor complain
When feeling frozen, as I know I will,
Of wind that cuts through me. None of my pain
Derives from icicles weighing me down
Or pressing sharply into my poor chest;
No lack of insulation makes me frown,
Nor does a tempest rob me of my rest.
It is your absence that I ought to scold;
Taking yourself away has made me cold.
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