I remember that as I was writing a poem on 'Snow' when I was eight, I said aloud, 'I wish I could… — 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
“This is my first snow at Smith. It is like any other snow, but from a different window, and there lies the… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
The lyric abstrusities of Auden ring mystically down the circular canals of my ear and it begins to look like snow. The… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
Well, I know now. I know a little more how much a simple thing like a snowfall can mean to a person — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
In London the day after Christmas (Boxing Day), it began to snow: my first snow in England. For five years, I had… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
“God, I scream for time to let go, to write, to think. But no. I have to exercise my memory in little… — 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
