Insomniac (Sylvia Plath Poems)
The night is only a sort of carbon paper, Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars Letting in the light, ...
The night is only a sort of carbon paper, Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars Letting in the light, ...
As the gods began one world, and man another, So the snakecharmer begins a snaky sphere With moon-eye, mouth-pipe, He ...
A dream tree, Polly's tree: a thicket of sticks, each speckled twig ending in a thin-paned leaf unlike any other ...
Your clear eye is the one absolutely beautiful thing. I want to fill it with color and ducks, The zoo ...
I do not want a plain box, I want a sarcophagus With tigery stripes, and a face on it Round ...
There is this white wall, above which the sky creates itself -- Infinite, green, utterly untouchable. Angels swim in it, ...
In Benidorm there are melons, Whole donkey-carts full Of innumerable melons, Ovals and balls, Bright green and thumpable Laced over ...
Summer grows old, cold-blooded mother. The insects are scant, skinny. In these palustral homes we only Croak and wither. Mornings ...
It was not a heart, beating. That muted boom, that clangor Far off, not blood in the ears Drumming up ...
Old man, you surface seldom. Then you come in with the tide's coming When seas wash cold, foam- Capped: white ...
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