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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: 59013 times | Comments and analysis of Edge by Sylvia Plath Comments (53)

Edge - Comments and Information

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

Comment 53 of 53, added on May 3rd, 2018 at 11:00 PM.
Edge by Sylvia Plath

The poem -Edge seems to be a confessional poem .Broken images of storm-tossed psychology of the poetess find a tapestry in the poem .

Subrata Ray from India
Comment 52 of 53, added on April 22nd, 2018 at 12:16 AM.

Do you mind if i can go ahead and translate the poem to arabic language and publish to my facebook page?

Ahmed from United States
Comment 51 of 53, added on May 10th, 2017 at 8:01 AM.

1d8GWT Like attentively would read, but has not understood

this site from Canada

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