The Collected Poems

by Sylvia Plath

brave love, dream not of staunching such strict flame, but come, lean to my wound; burn on, burn on.

Though it’s quite clear All your beauty, all your wit, is a gift, my dear, From me.

‘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.’

Grim as gargoyles from years spent squatting at sea’s border In wait amid snarled weed and wrack of wave To trap this wayward girl at her first move of love, Now with stake and pitchfork they advance, flint eyes fixed on murder.

Now, run to fat, she’s a spinster whose door shuts On all but cats.