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Poem by Sylvia Plath
Nightfall, cold eye—neither disheartens These goatish tragedians who Hawk misfortune like figs and chickens And, plaintiff against each day, decry Nature's partial, haphazard thumb. Under white wall and Moorish window Grief's honest grimace, debased by time, Caricatures itself and thrives On the coins of pity. At random A beggar stops among eggs and loaves, Props a leg-stump upon a crutch, Jiggles his tin cup at the goodwives. By lack and loss these beggars encroach On spirits tenderer than theirs, Suffering-toughened beyond the fetch Of finest conscience. Nightfall obscures The bay's sheer, extravagant blue, White house and almond grove. The beggars Outlast their evilest star, wryly And with a perfidious verve Baffle the dark, the pitying eye.
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