Plath in "Winter Landscape, With Rooks"
...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?
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?
Over the past few months, this poem has floated in and out of my mind...I admire Plath with her ability to crystallize emotion and strike at its very root, her ability to get to the absolute essence and express it through metaphors that haunt, that make me feel if only I could have said it so... Through her, I know myself. I recognize my self...
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