by Amy Lowell
The day is sharp and hurried
As wind upon a dahlia stem;
It is harsh and abrupt with me
As a North-east breeze
Striking a bed of sunflowers.
Why should I break at the root
And cast all my fragile flowers in the dust–
I who am no taller than a creeping pansy?
I should be sturdy and definite,
Yet I am tossed, and agitated, and pragmatically bending.
You can find this poem in Amy Lowell: Selected Poems.