By Sylvia Plath
The figs on the fig tree in the yard are green;
Green, also, the grapes on the green vine
Shading the brickred porch tiles.
The money's run out.
How nature, sensing this, compounds her bitters.
Ungifted, ungrieved, our leavetaking.
The sun shines on unripe corn.
Cats play in the stalks.
Retrospect shall not often such penury-
Sun's brass, the moon's steely patinas,
The leaden slag of the world-
But always expose
The scraggy rock spit shielding the town's blue bay
Against which the brunt of outer sea
Beats, is brutal endlessly.
Gull-fouled, a stone hut
Bares its low lintel to corroding weathers:
Across the jut of ochreous rock
Goats shamble, morose, rank-haired,
To lick the sea-salt.
That lofty monarch, Monarch Mind,
Blue-blooded in coarse country reigned;
Though he bedded in ermine, gorged on roast,
Pure Philosophy his love engrossed:
While subjects hungered, empty-pursed,
With stars, with angels, he conversed
Till, sick of their ruler's godling airs,
In one body those earthborn commoners
Rose up and put royal nerves to the rack:
King Egg-Head saw his domain crack,
His crown usurped by the low brow
Of the base, barbarous Prince Ow.
O half moon—-
Negro, masked like a white,
Amputations crawl and appall—-
Me from that shadow—-
The indelible buds.
Knuckles at shoulder-blades, the
Shove into being, dragging
Blood-caul of absences.
All night I carpenter
A space for the thing I am given,
Of two wet eyes and a screech.
The dark fruits revolve and fall.
The glass cracks across,
Flees and aborts like dropped mercury.