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Sylvia Plath - Frog Autumn

Summer grows old, cold-blooded mother. 
The insects are scant, skinny. 
In these palustral homes we only 
Croak and wither. 

Mornings dissipate in somnolence. 
The sun brightens tardily 
Among the pithless reeds. Flies fail us. 
he fen sickens. 

Frost drops even the spider. Clearly 
The genius of plenitude 
Houses himself elsewhwere. Our folk thin 
Lamentably.

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Added: May 7 2003 | Viewed: 1993 times | Comments and analysis of Frog Autumn by Sylvia Plath Comments (31)

Frog Autumn - Comments and Information

Poet: Sylvia Plath
Poem: Frog Autumn
Poem of the Day: Mar 25 2004

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