Sylvia Plath

United States
27 Oct 1932 // 11 Feb 1963
Poet / Novelist

Poems



Paralytic (1)

It happens. Will it go on?/ My mind a rock,/ No fingers to grip, no tongue,/ My god the iron lung/ / That loves me, pumps/ My two/ Dust bags in and out,/ Will not/ / Let me relapse/ While the day out...
Ariel

Elm (2)

I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root:/ It is what you fear./ I do not fear it: I have been there./ / Is it the sea you hear in me,/ Its dissatisfactions?/ Or the voice of not...
The Collected Poems

Daddy (3)

You do not do, you do not do/ Any more, black shoe/ In which I have lived like a foot/ For thirty years, poor and white,/ Barely daring to breathe or Achoo./ / Daddy, I have had to kill you./ You die...
Ariel

I Am Silver and Exact (4)

I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions./ Whatever I see I swallow immediately/ Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike./ I am not cruel, only truthful-/ The eye of the little god, four co...
The Collected Poems

Lady Lazarus (5)

I have done it again./ One year in every ten/ I manage it--/ / A sort of walking miracle, my skin/ Bright as a Nazi lampshade,/ My right foot/ / A paperweight,/ My face a featureless, fine/ Jew linen...
Ariel

I Am Vertical (6)

I Am Vertical/ / But I would rather be horizontal./ I am not a tree with my root in the soil/ Sucking up minerals and motherly love/ So that each March I may gleam into leaf,/ Nor am I the beauty of ...
The Collected Poems

I Walk Alone (7)

I?/ I walk alone;/ The midnight street/ Spins itself from under my feet;/ My eyes shut/ These dreaming houses all snuff out;/ Through a whim of mine/ Over gables the moon's celestial onion/ Hangs hig...


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On Anger: "For every minute you remain angry, you give up sixty seconds of peace of mind."
Essays
On Destiny: "Our destiny exercises its influence over us even when, as yet, we have not learned its nature: it is our future that lays down the law of our today."
Human, All Too Human
On Friendship: "A crowd is not company; and faces are but a gallery of pictures; and talk but a tinkling cymbal, where there is no love."
Essays