The Collected Poems

by Sylvia Plath

Last summer’s reeds are all engraved in ice as is your image in my eye; dry frost glazes the window of my hurt; what solace can be struck from rock to make heart’s waste grow green again? Who’d walk in this bleak place?

Dans le fond des forêts votre image me suit.

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

Mayday: two came to field in such wise: ‘A daisied mead,’ each said to each, So were they one;

Double entendre; field - war daisied- dead one-won couch - to lie down // lower to attack

pitched their coats,

green bed.

LIE ON TGE MEADOW // be buried dead

stinging nettle;

hurtful comments // beating with a nettle

lovers lay

Love her slay

sun turned pale from warm,

Light draining from her eyes // decomposing

smart

sharp stinging pain // Painfully severe mental suffering annoyance