Sunrise, and the flame...
fractures in the shattered glass.
It doesn't fall to many men
to make a living by the pen
I think of you, I think, and then
I think of me, and what I see,
Infinity, the number three,
reputation, wealth and fame,
Herakleitos numbers game,
Tigers that the blood can't tame;
Lies of virtue! How sincere!
Yellowing with every year!
Star of snowflake, stabbing spear,
Dryad maid arboreate
and our poet laureate
last in halls marmoreal
to the red Escorial.
Ragged ribbons rainbow rout
cannot burn the candle out
She falls through halls of time across
to see which one is really boss
We cannot see where this will end
we can, in closing, recommend
the Hanging Man, who will suspend
his Judgment, in the halls of time,
to thine, and thine, and thine, and thine,
bloodstains in the halls of time;
Rosettas descending askew,
me and you.
and pass, and pass.
nothing but rubble.
the song of the sunbird,
ascending to infinite space.
And all the roses gathered there
have now turned into sun-mist air
Infinity, to which we fly--
San Francisco, USA
Saturday, November 4, 2000
The Sylvia Plath Forum is administered by Elaine Connell, author of Sylvia Plath: Killing The Angel In The House.
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