I wish to cry. Yet, I laugh, and my lipstick leaves a red stain like a bloody crescent moon on top of… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
“Water will run by rule; the actual sun / Will scrupulously rise and set; / No little man lives in the exacting… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
If the moon smiled, she would resemble you. You leave the same impression Of something beautiful, but annihilating. — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
My mother's face floated to mind, a pale, reproachful moon, at her last and first visit to the asylum since my twentieth… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
The moon has nothing to be sad about, Staring from her hood of bone. She is used to this sort of thing.… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. (I think I made you up… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
“Their hands and faces stiff with holiness. The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild. And the message of… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me Cruelly, being barren. Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her. — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
“If the moon smiled, she would resemble you. You leave the same impression Of something beautiful, but annihilating. Both of you are… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
So, now I shall talk every night. To myself. To the moon. I shall walk, as I did tonight, jealous of my… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
My thoughts are crabbed and sallow, My tears like vinegar, Or the bitter blinking yellow Of an acetic star. Tonight the caustic… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
“The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right, White as a knuckle and terribly upset. It drags… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my lids and all is born again. (I think I… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
“I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering Blue and mystical over the face of the stars Inside the church, the… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
I do not want a plain box, I want a sarcophagus With tigery stripes, and a face on it Round as the… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
The moon, too, abases her subjects, but in the daytime she is ridiculous. Your dissatisfactions, on the other hand, arrive through the… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
“So, now I shall talk every night. To myself. To the moon. I shall walk, as I did tonight, jealous of my… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
“I? I walk alone; The midnight street Spins itself from under my feet; My eyes shut These dreaming houses all snuff out;… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right, White as a knuckle and terribly upset. It drags… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
There is a certain unique and strange delight about walking down an empty street alone. There is an off-focus light cast by… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
“It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted the Rosenbergs, and I didn't know what I was doing in New York.” — Sylvia Plath Copy Share
... These are my hands My knees. I may be skin and bone, Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman. ... --Lady Lazarus — Sylvia Plath Copy Share
Sure, I’m dramatic and sloppily semi-cynical and semi-sentimental. But, in leisure years I could grow and choose my way. Now I am living on… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share
“People were made of nothing so much as dust, and I couldn't see that doctoring all that dust was a bit better than writing… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share
“I couldn't stand the idea of a woman having to have a single pure life and a man being able to have a double… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share
I saw the gooseflesh on my skin. I did not know what made it. I was not cold. Had a ghost passed over? No,… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share
“The city had faded my tan, though. I looked yellow as a Chinaman. Ordinarily, I would have been nervous about my dress and my… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share
A million years of evolution, Eric said bitterly, and what are we? Animals. — Sylvia Plath Copy Share
“I have stitched life into me like a rare organ --from "Three Women: A Poem for Three Voices", written 1962” — Sylvia Plath Copy Share
“Flute Notes from a Reedy Pond" Now coldness comes sifting down, layer after layer, To our bower at the lily root. Overhead the old… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share
“The most saddening thing is to admit that I am not in love. I can only love (if that means self denial - or… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share
