The weather changed, a trouble blacked

My biography and native sky.

I felt such need of something lacked

Or loosened or all let go by,

I told a man, and asked him why

This should seem myself my cloud,

And told him how my hand works ill,

My head is hard, my mouth aloud

Probably mouths something fit to kill.

I was an emptiness to fill.

He was a history of such old

Wear it did not show on his face,

Except as his cheekbones were cold,

And I was changed a little in grace,

Glad not to be in that man's place.

I could and I should have brought

Gossip from an unhappier year,

Except that it was so long forgot.

That would be how to crowd him near

And halt him long enough to hear,

Had I wanted to talk him down.

I gave him back for good his worst

By shutting my mouth upon my own,

And neither one of us stood first

In the way each of us is cursed.