Sylvia Plath

Watercolor Of Grantchester Meadows

There, spring lambs jam the sheepfold. In air Stilled, silvered as water in a glass Nothing is big or far. The small shrew chitters from its wilderness Of grassheads and is heard. Each thumb-sized bird Fits nimble-winged in thickets, and of good color. Cloudrack and owl-hollowed willows slanting over The bland Granta double their white and green World under the sheer water And ride that flux at anchor, upside down. The punter sinks his pole. In Byron's pool Cattails part where the tame cygnets steer. It is a country on a nursery plate. Spotted cows revolve their jaws and crop Red clover or gnaw beetroot Bellied on a nimbus of sun-glazed buttercup. Hedging meadows of benign Arcadian green The blood-berried hawthorn hides its spines with white. Droll, vegetarian, the water rat Saws down a reed and swims from his limber grove, While the students stroll or sit, Hands laced, in a moony indolence of love --- Black-gowned, but unaware How in such mild air The owl shall stoop from his turret, the rat cry out.

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