Poem by Sylvia Plath

Frog Autumn

Summer grows old, cold-blooded mother.
The insects are scant, skinny.
In these palustral homes we only
Croak and wither.

Mornings dissipate in somnolence.
The sun brightens tardily
Among the pithless reeds. Flies fail us.
he fen sickens.

Frost drops even the spider. Clearly
The genius of plenitude
Houses himself elsewhwere. Our folk thin
Lamentably.

1. In Plaster
2. Black Pine Tree in an Orange Light
3. The Snowman on the Moor
4. Prologue to Spring
5. Pheasant

Print

1630 Views

Last Poems

To Russian version