Getting There (Sylvia Plath Poems)
How far is it? How far is it now? The gigantic gorilla interior Of the wheels move, they appall me ...
How far is it? How far is it now? The gigantic gorilla interior Of the wheels move, they appall me ...
Here are two pupils whose moons of black transform to cripples all who look: each lovely lady who peers inside ...
The Sunday lamb cracks in its fat. The fat Sacrifices its opacity. . . . A window, holy gold. The ...
On the stiff twig up there Hunches a wet black rook Arranging and rearranging its feathers in the rain. I ...
In the rectory garden on his evening walk Paced brisk Father Shawn. A cold day, a sodden one it was ...
Old goatherds swear how all night long they hear The warning whirr and burring of the bird Who wakes with ...
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