Not from some sympathy with those who bear it
Nor from the pressure of my own small fears:
My self-concern and thoughts of those who share it,
But from the simple physical release
Of having cold air blowing in my face;
I squint, and duck, and try to find a crease
In which I won't be gusted out of place
And fail. And so I weep not from my sorrow
Nor any reason but the simplest one:
There is no trouble here that I would borrow
But only weakness. When the wind is done
I will, I know, be smiling once more
No matter what may happen out of door.
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