Revolving in oval loops of solar speed,
Couched in cauls of clay as in holy robes,
Dead men render love and war no heed,
Lulled in the ample womb of the full-tilt globe.

No spiritual Caesars are these dead;
They want no proud paternal kingdom come;
And when at last they blunder into bed
World-wrecked, they seek only oblivion.

Rolled round with goodly loam and cradled deep,
These bone shanks will not wake immaculate
To trumpet-toppling dawn of doomstruck day : 
They loll forever in colossal sleep;
Nor can God's stern, shocked angels cry them up
From their fond, final, infamous decay.

Added: on February 13th, 2006 at 2:04 AM | Viewed: 12939 times | Comments (2)

Poet: Sylvia Plath
Poem: The Dead

Are you looking for more information on this poem? Perhaps you are trying to analyze it? The poem, The Dead, has received 2 comments. Click here to read them, and perhaps post a comment of your own. Of course you can also always discuss poems by Sylvia Plath with others on the American Poems poetry forum!