Sylvia Plath

April Aubade

Worship this world of watercolor mood in glass pagodas hung with veils of green where diamonds jangle hymns within the blood and sap ascends the steeple of the vein. A saintly sparrow jargons madrigals to waken dreamers in the milky dawn, while tulips bow like a college of cardinals before that papal paragon, the sun. Christened in a spindrift of snowdrop stars, where on pink-fluted feet the pigeons pass and jonquils sprout like solomon's metaphors, my love and I go garlanded with grass. Again we are deluded and infer that somehow we are younger than we were.

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