Sylvia Plath


'Tea leaves I've given up, And that crooked line On the queen's palm Is no more my concern. On my black pilgrimage This moon-pocked crystal ball Will break before it help; Rather than croak out What's to come, My darling ravens are flown. 'Forswear those freezing tricks of sight And all else I've taught Against the flower in the blood: Not wealth nor wisdom stands Above the simple vein, The straight mouth. Go to your greenhorn youth Before time ends And do good With your white hands."

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