American Culture · American Literature · Classic · Collection · Confessional · Excerpt · Fragment · Modernism · Passage · Poetry

Sylvia Plath

I would have killed myself gladly that time any possible way. Now there are these veils, shimmering like curtains, the diaphanous satins of a January window white as babies’ bedding and glittering with dead breath. O ivory! — Sylvia Plath, from “A Birthday Present,” Ariel. (Harper & Row 1966)

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American Culture · American Literature · Classic · Collection · Confessional · Excerpt · Fragment · Modernism · Passage · Poetry

Sylvia Plath

Winter is for women — The woman, still at her knitting, At the cradle of Spanish walnut, Her body a bulb in the cold and too dumb to think. Will the hive survive, will the gladiolas Succeed in banking their fires To enter another year? What will they taste of, the Christmas roses? The bees… Continue reading Sylvia Plath

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American Culture · American Literature · Anthology · Classic · Collection · Confessional · Modernism · Poetry

Sylvia Plath

Tulips The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here. Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in.    I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands.    I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.    I have given… Continue reading Sylvia Plath

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