Sylvia Plath, in Paris
Sylvia Plath, in Paris. (October 27, 1932 – February 11, 1963)
I’m terrified by this dark thing. That sleeps in me; All day i feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity. Clouds pass and disperse. Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrivables? Is it for such i agitate my heart?
I’m terrified by this dark thing. That sleeps in me; All day i feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity. Clouds pass and disperse. Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrivables? Is it for such i agitate my heart?
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