This is

the light

of the

mind, cold

and planetary.

The trees

of the

mind are

black. The

light is

blue. The

grasses unload

their griefs

at my

feet as

if I

were God,

Prickling my

ankles and

murmuring of

their humility.

Fumy spiritous

mists inhabit

this place

Separated from

my house

by a

row of

headstones. I

simply cannot

see where

there is

to get

to. The

moon is

no door.

It is

a face

in its

own right,

White as

a knuckle

and terribly

upset. It

drags the

sea after

it like

a dark

crime; it

is quiet

with the

O-gape of

complete despair.

I live

here. Twice

on Sunday

the bells

startle the

sky -- Eight

great tongues

affirming the

Resurrection. At

the end

they soberly

bong out

their names. (Plath)