Sylvia Plath

Ode For Ted

From under the crunch of my man's boot green oat-sprouts jut; he names a lapwing, starts rabbits in a rout legging it most nimble to sprigged hedge of bramble, stalks red fox, shrewd stoat. Loam-humps, he says, moles shunt up from delved worm-haunt; blue fur, moles have; hefting chalk-hulled flint he with rock splits open knobbed quartz; flayed colors ripen rich, brown, sudden in sunlight. For his least look, scant acres yield: each finger-furrowed field heaves forth stalk, leaf, fruit-nubbed emerald; bright grain sprung so rarely he hauls to his will early; at his hand's staunch hest, birds build. Ringdoves roost well within his wood, shirr songs to suit which mood he saunters in; how but most glad could be this adam's woman when all earth his words do summon leaps to laud such man's blood!

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