Sunday, November 18, 2012

Child By Sylvia Plath

Your clear eye is the one absolutely beautiful thing.
I want to fill it with color and ducks,
the zoo of the new.
Whose names you meditate-
April snowdrop, Indian pipe,
Stalk without wrinkle,
Pool in which images,
should be grand and classical.
Not this troubles
wringing of hands, this dark
ceiling without a star.