Sylvia Plath›Poezii

When night comes black Such royal dreams beckon this man As lift him apart From his earth-wife\'s side To wing, sleep-feathered, The singular

In Alicante they bowl the barrels Bumblingly over the nubs of the cobbles Past the yellow-paella eateries, Below the ramshackle back-alley

On the stiff twig up there Hunches a wet black rook Arranging and rearranging its feathers in the rain. I do not expect a miracle Or an

He, hunger-strung, hard to slake, So fitted is for my black luck (With heat such as no man could have And yet keep kind) That all merit\'s in

That grandiose colossus who Stood astride The envious assaults of sea (Essaying, wave by wave, Tide by tide, To undo him, perpetually), Has

Arena dust rusted by four bulls\' blood to a dull redness, The afternoon at a bad end under the crowd\'s truculence, The ritual death each time

The figs on the fig tree in the yard are green; Green, also, the grapes on the green vine Shading the brickred porch tiles. The money\'s run

Haunched like a faun, he hooed From grove of moon-glint and fen-frost Until all owls in the twigged forest Flapped black to look and brood On the

\'Tea leaves I\'ve given up, And that crooked line On the queen\'s palm Is no more my concern. On my black pilgrimage This moon-pocked crystal

Mud-mattressed under the sign of the hag In a clench of blood, the sleep-talking virgin Gibbets with her curse the moon\'s man, Faggot-bearing

Gerd sits spindle-shaped in her dark tent, Lean face gone tawn with seasons , Skin worn down to the knucklebones At her tough trade; without

Through frost-thick weather This witch sidles, fingers crooked, as if Caught in a hazardous medium that might Merely by its continuing Attach

I\'ve got a stubborn goose whose gut\'s Honeycombed with golden eggs, Yet won\'t lay one. She, addled in her goose-wit, struts The barnyard like

In the rectory garden on his evening walk Paced brisk Father Shawn. A cold day, a sodden one it was In black Novemeber. After a sliding rain Dew

From my rented attic with no earth To call my own except the air-motes, I malign the leaden perspective Of identical gray brick houses, Orange

Day of mist: day of tarnish with hands unserviceable, I wait for the milk van the one-eared cat laps its gray paw and the coal fire

With white frost gone And all green dreams not worth much, After a lean day\'s work Time comes round for that foul slut: Mere bruit of her takes

Two girls there are : within the house One sits; the other, without. Daylong a duet of shade and light Plays between these. In her dark

Now this particular girl During a ceremonious April walk With her latest suitor Found herself, of a sudden, intolerably struck By the birds\'

No novice In those elaborate rituals Which allay the malice Of knotted table and crooked chair, The new woman in the ward Wears purple, steps

I I walk alone; The midnight street Spins itself from under my feet; When my eyes shut These dreaming houses all snuff out; Through a whim

Through fen and farmland walking With my own country love I saw slow flocked cows move White hulks on their day\'s cruising; Sweet grass sprang

In Benidorm there are melons, Whole donkey-carts full Of innumerable melons, Ovals and balls, Bright green and thumpable Laced over with

Better that every fiber crack and fury make head, blood drenching vivid couch, carpet, floor and the snake-figured almanac vouching you are