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On The Difficulty Of Conjuring Up A Dryad
por
Sylvia Plath
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Autoplay next video Ravening through the persistent bric-à-brac Of blunt pencils, rose-sprigged coffee cup, Postage stamps, stacked books' clamor and yawp, Neighborhood c*ckcrow—all nature's prodigal backtalk, The vaunting mind Snubs impromptu spiels of wind And wrestles to impose Its own order on what is. ‘With my fantasy alone,' brags the importunate head, Arrogant among rook-tongued spaces, Sheep greens, finned falls, ‘I shall compose a crisis To stun sky black out, drive gibbering mad Trout, c*ck, ram, That bulk so calm On my jealous stare, Self-sufficient as they are.' But no hocus-pocus of green angels Damasks with dazzle the threadbare eye; ‘My trouble, doctor, is: I see a tree, And that damn scrupulous tree won't practice wiles To beguile sight: E.g., by cant of light Concoct a Daphne; My tree stays tree.
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