Sylvia Plath Bot

I am not ready for anything to happen.

Stalled, let fall their vertical Tonnage of metal and wood; Stunned the marrow.

The Surgeon at 2 a.m.

The last of Victoriana.

That knits to each original its coarse copy.

Of fatigue, I shall Patch together a content

Picket of trees whose silhouette is darker

Attendants!

And hungry, hungry, those taut thighs.

Among petals pale as death

They propped his jaw with a book until it stiffened

I put my hands among the flames. Nothing burns.

So, so, Herr Doktor.

The thin

Stones, strode out in your dead Black coat, black shoes, and your Black hair till there you stood,

Such a racket of echoes from the steely street,

You say I should drown my girl.

In Midas' Country

What is so real as the cry of a child? A rabbit's cry may be wilder

And the onlooker, trembling, Drawn like a long material Through a still virulence,

To no family-featured ghost, Nor did any word body with a name The blank mood she walked in. Once past