from "Wuthering Heights"
by Sylvia Plath
"The sheep know where they are,
Browsing in their dirty wool-clouds,
Gray as the weather.
The black slots of their pupils take me in.
It is like being mailed into space,
A thin, silly message.
They stand about in grandmotherly disguise,
All wig curls and yellow teeth
And hard, marbly baas."
Not one line to lose, and such imagery and imagination! I love what she could do.
I'm still reading the Bell Jar and a few Plath poems every night before bed. Enjoying both and want to clear the way for Atonement, which I don't dare start until I tie up some loose ends in my reading. Oh, but I couldn't resist the Yarn Harlot's new little book at Barnes and Noble, so now I'm also reading the slim Things I Learned from Knitting (Whether I Wanted to Or Not).
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