The word of a snail on the plate of a leaf?
It is not mine. Do not accept it.
Acetic acid in a sealed tin?
Do not accept it. It is not genuine.
A ring of gold with the sun in it?
Lies. Lies and a grief.
Frost on a leaf, the immaculate
Cauldron, talking and crackling
All to itself on the top of each
Of nine black Alps.
A disturbance in mirrors,
The sea shattering its grey one --
Love, love, my season.
- Sylvia Plath
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L O V E - Poetry of the Greats
PoetryA collection of great love poetry, chosen in no particular order or reason except that it spoke to me. I hope it speaks to you too. *Disclaimer: these works are not my own.*
