...Is Bliss

The unkind wind outside moves me to tears

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.