Sylvia Plath

I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it——
A sort of walking miracle, my skin

You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,

Old goatherds swear how all night long they
The warning whirr and burring of the
Who wakes with darkness and till dawn works
Vampiring dry of milk each great goat udder

The night is only a sort of carbon paper,
Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of
Letting in the light, peephole after peephole

How far is it
How far is it now
The gigantic gorilla
Of the wheels move, they appall me —-The terrible

The
Rattles its pod, the
Discharges itself from the tree with nowhere to go
My landscape is a hand with no lines,

Gold mouths cry with the green youngcertainty of the bronze boyremembering a thousand autumnsand how a hundred thousand leavescame sliding down his shoulder bladespersuaded by his bronze heroic reason
We ignore the coming doom of goldand we a...

If you dissect a
To diagram the
You'll cut the
Articulating song

Kindness glides about my house
Dame Kindness, she is so nice
The blue and red jewels of her rings
In the windows, the

You bring me good news from the clinic,
Whipping off your silk scarf, exhibiting the tight
Mummy-cloths, smiling:
I'm all right

I have no wit,
I have no words, no tears;
My heart within me like a
Is numbed too much for hopes or fears;

Empty,
I echo to the least footfall,
Museum without statues, grand with pillars, porticoes, rotundas
In my courtyard a fountain leaps and sinks back into itself,