By Candlelight
This is winter, this is night, small love -- / A sort of black horsehair,
Southern Sunrise
❦
Color of lemon, mango, peach,
These storybook villas
Still dream behind
Shutters, thier balconies
Fine as hand-
Made lace, or a leaf-and-flower pen-sketch.
Tilting with the winds,
On arrowy stems,
Pineapple-barked,
A green crescent of palms
Sends up its forked
Firework of fronds.
A quartz-clear dawn
Inch by bright inch
Gilds all our Avenue,
And out of the blue drench
Of Angels' Bay
Rises the round red watermelon sun.
More poems by Sylvia Plath
The Eye-Mote
Blameless as daylight I stood looking / At a field of horses, necks bent, manes blown,
I Am Vertical
But I would rather be horizontal. / I am not a tree with my root in the soil
Winter Landscape, With Rooks
Water in the millrace, through a sluice of stone, / plunges headlong into that black pond