Ariel: The Restored Edition

by Sylvia Plath

Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.

Even in his Absence, I Revolve in my Sheath of impossibles, Priceless and quiet Among these parakeets, macaws.

I shall unloose— From the small jeweled Doll he guards like a heart— The lioness, The shriek in the bath, The cloak of holes.

The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God, Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility.

The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary. Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls. How I would like to believe in tenderness— The face of the effigy, gentled by candles, Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.

Clouds are flowering Blue and mystical over the face of the stars.

If the moon smiled, she would resemble you. You leave the same impression Of something beautiful, but annihilating.