Sylvia Plath›Poezii

In the dour ages Of drafty cells and draftier castles, Of dragons breathing without the frame of fables, Saint and king unfisted obstruction\'s

In the Archæological Museum in Cambridge is a stone coffin of the fourth century A.D. containing the skeletons of a woman, a mouse and a shrew.

Here in this valley of discrete academies We have not mountains, but mounts, truncated hillocks To the Adirondacks, to northern

Grub-white mulberries redden among leaves. I\'ll go out and sit in white like they do, Doing nothing. July\'s juice rounds their nubs. This park

It is a chilly god, a god of shades, Rises to the glass from his black fathoms. At the window, those unborn, those undone Assemble with the frail

The Triumph of Wit Over Suffering Head alone shows you in the prodigious act Of digesting what centuries alone digest: The mammoth, lumbering

I came before the water --- Colorists came to get the Good of the Cape light that scours Sand grit to sided crystal And buffs and sleeks the

Thou shalt have an everlasting Monday and stand in the moon. The moon\'s man stands in his shell, Bent under a bundle Of sticks. The light

It is no night to drown in: A full moon, river lapsing Black beneath bland mirror-sheen, The blue water-mists dropping Scrim after scrim

Mother, mother, what illbred aunt Or what disfigured and unsightly Cousin did you so unwisely keep Unasked to my christening, that she Sent

A Sestina for the Dounier Yadwigha, the literalists once wondered how you Came to be lying on this baroque couch Upholstered in red velvet,

For Leonard Baskin To his house the bodiless Come to barter endlessly Vision, wisdom, for bodies Palpable as his, and weighty. Hands

How this tart fable instructs And mocks! Here\'s the parody of that moral mousetrap Set in the proverbs stitched on samplers Approving chased

Flintlike, her feet struck Such a racket of echoes from the steely street, Tacking in moon-blued crooks from the black Stone-built town, that she

All summer we moved in a villa brimful of echos, Cool as the pearled interior of a conch. Bells, hooves, of the high-stipping black goats woke

We came over the moor-top Through air streaming and green-lit, Stone farms foundering in it, Valleys of grass altering In a light neither

That lofty monarch, Monarch Mind, Blue-blooded in coarse contry reigned; Though he bedded in ermine, gorged on roast, Pure Philosophy his love

It was not a heart, beating. That muted boom, that clangor Far off, not blood in the ears Drumming up and fever To impose on the evening.

Enter the chilly no-man\'s land of about Five o\'clock in the morning, the no-color void Where the waking head rubbishes out the draggled lot

Summer grows old, cold-blooded mother. The insects are scant, skinny. In these palustral homes we only Croak and wither. Mornings

They are always with us, the thin people Meager of dimension as the gray people On a movie-screen. They Are unreal, we say: It was only

God knows how our neighbor managed to breed His great sow: Whatever his shrewd secret, he kept it hid In the same way He kept the

As the gods began one world, and man another, So the snakecharmer begins a snaky sphere With moon-eye, mouth-pipe. He pipes. Pipes green. Pipes

Old man, you surface seldom. Then you come in with the tide\'s coming When seas wash cold, foam- Capped: white hair, white beard, far-flung,