Sylvia Plath





Sheep in Fog

The hills step off into whiteness. 
People or stars 
Regard me sadly, I disappoint them. 

The train leaves a line of breath. 
O slow 
Horse the colour of rust, 

Hooves, dolorous bells - 
All morning the 
Morning has been blackening, 

A flower left out. 
My bones hold a stillness, the far 
Fields melt my heart. 

They threaten 
To let me through to a heaven 
Starless and fatherless, a dark water.