The Collected Poems

by Sylvia Plath

the net Of all decorum which holds the whirlwind back.

Last summer’s reeds are all engraved in ice as is your image in my eye; dry

Along red network of his veins What fires run, what craving wakes?

we mask our past in the green of eden, pretend future’s shining fruit can sprout from the navel of this present waste.

Meek and proud both fall; stark violence Lays all walls waste;

‘In life, love gnawed my skin To this white bone; What love did then, love does now: Gnaws me through.’

‘There sits no higher court Than man’s red heart.’

Dawn snuffs out star’s spent wick, Even as love’s dear fools cry evergreen,

Old Ella Mason keeps cats, eleven at last count, In her ramshackle house off Somerset Terrace;

We dreamed how we were perfect, and we were.

He lifts an arm to bring her close, but she Shies from his touch: his is an iron mood. Seeing her freeze, he turns his face away. They poise and grieve as in some old tragedy.