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October 5th, 2015 - we have 234 poets, 8,025 poems and 298,706 comments.
Sylvia Plath - Pheasant

You said you would kill it this morning.
Do not kill it. It startles me still,
The jut of that odd, dark head, pacing

Through the uncut grass on the elm's hill.
It is something to own a pheasant,
Or just to be visited at all.

I am not mystical: it isn't
As if I thought it had a spirit.
It is simply in its element.

That gives it a kingliness, a right.
The print of its big foot last winter,
The trail-track, on the snow in our court

The wonder of it, in that pallor,
Through crosshatch of sparrow and starling.
Is it its rareness, then? It is rare.

But a dozen would be worth having,
A hundred, on that hill-green and red,
Crossing and recrossing: a fine thing!

It is such a good shape, so vivid.
It's a little cornucopia.
It unclaps, brown as a leaf, and loud,

Settles in the elm, and is easy.
It was sunning in the narcissi.
I trespass stupidly. Let be, let be.

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Added: May 7 2003 | Viewed: 2198 times | Comments and analysis of Pheasant by Sylvia Plath Comments (8)

Pheasant - Comments and Information

Poet: Sylvia Plath
Poem: Pheasant
Poem of the Day: Jul 22 2007

Comment 8 of 8, added on September 3rd, 2015 at 10:11 AM.

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michael crork from Faroe Islands
Comment 7 of 8, added on July 1st, 2015 at 7:51 AM.

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crork matt from Latvia

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