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November 28th, 2015 - we have 234 poets, 8,025 poems and 305,693 comments.
Sylvia Plath - Edge

The woman is perfected
Her dead

Body wears the smile of accomplishment,
The illusion of a Greek necessity

Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Her bare

Feet seem to be saying:
We have come so far, it is over.

Each dead child coiled, a white serpent,
One at each little

Pitcher of milk, now empty
She has folded

Them back into her body as petals
Of a rose close when the garden

Stiffens and odors bleed
From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower.

The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.

She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag.

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Added: Feb 20 2003 | Viewed: 52709 times | Comments and analysis of Edge by Sylvia Plath Comments (34)

Edge - Comments and Information

Poet: Sylvia Plath
Poem: Edge
Volume: The Collected Poems
Year: Published/Written in 1963

Comment 34 of 34, added on November 9th, 2015 at 4:14 PM.

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Comment 33 of 34, added on November 9th, 2015 at 8:24 AM.

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Comment 32 of 34, added on November 9th, 2015 at 4:20 AM.

kEzL3k IaаАа’б‚Т€ТšаЂаŒаАа’б‚Т€ТžаБТžll complain that you have copied materials from a different source

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