Vanity Fair (Sylvia Plath Poems)
Through frost-thick weather This witch sidles, fingers crooked, as if Caught in a hazardous medium that might Merely by its ...
Through frost-thick weather This witch sidles, fingers crooked, as if Caught in a hazardous medium that might Merely by its ...
In the rectory garden on his evening walk Paced brisk Father Shawn. A cold day, a sodden one it was ...
Bare-handed, I hand the combs. The man in white smiles, bare-handed, Our cheesecloth gauntlets neat and sweet, The throats of ...
Water in the millrace, through a sluice of stone, plunges headlong into that black pond where, absurd and out-of-season, a ...
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