Sylvia Plath. (№ 319590)

At the stone trough water
From the mill rushes into the black pond,
Which is the Swan, pure as snow, a pond
Absurd excites the mind when
From white to close want that.
Above the swamp the sun rises sparingly
Ciclopi red staring eyes in contempt
In the magic landscape of the marshes;
I'm thinking, just in the black plumage,
As the rook that is looking for your night shelter.
The ice cane as if the picture had frozen,
As your image in my eye; glass
Pattern of pain painted frost,
Someone in the house will go cold? As a rock
To cut to the heart blossomed?