Frog Autumn - Poem by Sylvia Plath
Summer grows old, cold-blooded mother.
The insects are scant, skinny.
In these palustral homes we only
Croak and wither.
Mornings dissipate in somnolence.
The sun brightens tardily
Among the pithless reeds. Flies fail us.
he fen sickens.
Frost drops even the spider. Clearly
The genius of plenitude
Houses himself elsewhwere. Our folk thin
Comments about Frog Autumn by Sylvia Plath
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Sylvia Plath's Other Poems
- A Birthday Present
- Lady Lazarus
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You