Sylvia Plath

The Manor Garden

The fountains are dry and the roses over. Incense of death. Your day approaches. The pears fatten like little buddhas. A blue mist is dragging the lake. You move through the era of fishes, The smug centuries of the pig- Head, toe and finger Come clear of the shadow. History Nourishes these broken flutings, These crowns of acanthus, And the crow settles her garments. You inherit white heather, a bee's wing, Two suicides, the family wolves, Hours of blankness. Some hard stars Already yellow the heavens. The spider on its own string Crosses the lake. The worms Quit their usual habitations. The small birds converge, converge With their gifts to a difficult borning.

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