Stillborn (Sylvia Plath Poems)
These poems do not live: it's a sad diagnosis. They grew their toes and fingers well enough, Their little foreheads ...
These poems do not live: it's a sad diagnosis. They grew their toes and fingers well enough, Their little foreheads ...
If the moon smiled, she would resemble you. You leave the same impression Of something beautiful, but annihilating. Both of ...
The air is a mill of hooks -- Questions without answer, Glittering and drunk as flies Whose kiss stings unbearably ...
How shall I wail, that wasn't meant for weeping? Love has run and left me, oh, what then? Dream, then, ...
I always saw, I always said If I were grown and free, I'd have a gown of reddest red As ...
Husbands are things that wives have to get used to putting up with. And with whom they breakfast with and ...
Morning again, nothing has to be done, maybe buy a piano or make fudge. At least clean the room up ...
Beautiful Rothesay, your scenery is most grand, You cannot be surpassed in fair Scotland. Tis healthy for holiday makers, to ...
At on time, in America, many years ago, Large gray wolves wont to wander to and fro; And from the ...
Here let us linger at will and delightsomely hearken Music aeolian of wind in the boughs of pine, Timbrel of ...
I was the laughing-stock of the village, Chiefly of the people of good sense, as they call themselves -- Also ...
Hinemoa, Tui, Maina, All of them were born together; They are quite an extra special Set of babies--wax and leather. ...
But, learning now that they would have her speak, She threw her wet hair backward from her brow, Her hand ...
Within this sober Frame expect Work of no Forrain Architect; That unto Caves the Quarries drew, And Forrests did to ...
Naturally it is night. Under the overturned lute with its One string I am going my way Which has a ...
At first I suspected something -- She acted so calm and absent-minded. And one day I heard the back door ...
When the buds began to burst, Long ago, with Rose the First I was walking; joyous then Far above all ...
The sky is crumbling into millions of paper dots the wind blows in my face so I duck into my ...
Hence, loathed Melancholy, ............Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born In Stygian cave forlorn ............'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights ...
Look, the eucalyptus, the Atlas pine, the yellowing ash, all the trees are gone, and I was older than all ...
(Note: - Pocahontas is buried at Gravesend, England.) "Pocahontas' body, lovely as a poplar, sweet as a red haw in ...
(To a Man who maintained that the Mausoleum is the Stateliest Possible Manner of Interment) I would be one with ...
Chapter I. Once on a time, a Dawn, all red and bright Leapt on the conquered ramparts of the Night, ...
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