| Edge | |
Poem By: Sylvia Plath | Views: 355 | Word Count: 94 | View PDF | Print View |
|
|
|
The woman is perfected
Her dead
Body wears the smile of accomplishment,
The illusion of a Greek necessity
Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Her bare
Feet seem to be saying:
We have come so far, it is over.
Each dead child coiled, a white serpent,
One at each little
Pitcher of milk, now empty
She has folded
Them back into her body as petals
Of a rose close when the garden
Stiffens and odors bleed
From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower.
The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.
She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag.
| If you enjoyed this famous poem, rate it! Currently Rated: Not yet rated - Be the first! |
About the Author Sylvia Plath (1932 - 1963) was born in Boston. Her father was a professor of biology at Boston University, and had specialized in bees. He has been characterized as authoritarian and died of diabetes in 1940 when Plath was eight years old... Read Sylvia Plath's Full Biography
More Poems By Sylvia Plath
1: Jilted
4: Years
5: Death & Co.
6: Frog Autumn
7: April 18
9: Lesbos
+ View All Sylvia Plath Poems
