Sylvia Plath

(October 27, 1932 – February 11, 1963 / Jamaica Plain, Massachusetts)

Sylvia Plath Poems

If you see a poem only with title, it is listed that way because of copyright reasons.
161. Perseus 1/3/2003
162. Fiesta Melons 1/3/2003
163. The Eye-Mote 1/3/2003
164. Sleepers 1/3/2003
165. Leaving Early 1/13/2003
166. The Munich Mannequins 1/3/2003
167. Poems, Potatoes 1/3/2003
168. Electra On Azalea Path 1/3/2003
169. Mary's Song 1/1/2004
170. Night Shift 1/13/2003
171. The Dead 1/1/2004
172. The Other 1/13/2003
173. Poppies In October 1/3/2003
174. Paralytic 1/3/2003
175. Three Women 1/3/2003
176. Gigolo 1/3/2003
177. Letter In November 1/3/2003
178. Stings 1/3/2003
179. Face Lift 1/1/2004
180. The Bee Meeting 1/3/2003
181. Getting There 1/1/2004
182. Snakecharmer 1/3/2003
183. Dialogue Between Ghost And Priest 1/3/2003
184. The Arrival Of The Bee Box 1/3/2003
185. Pursuit 1/3/2003
186. Southern Sunrise 1/3/2003
187. Sheep In Fog 1/3/2003
188. Full Fathom Five 1/3/2003
189. The Night Dances 1/3/2003
190. Last Words 1/3/2003
191. Years 1/3/2003
192. Fever 103 Deg. 1/3/2003
193. Bucolics 1/3/2003
194. Sow 1/3/2003
195. Crossing The Water 1/13/2003
196. Mystic 1/3/2003
197. Elm 1/3/2003
198. Lorelei 1/3/2003
199. Spinster 1/3/2003
200. Words 1/3/2003
Best Poem of Sylvia Plath

Cinderella

The prince leans to the girl in scarlet heels,
Her green eyes slant, hair flaring in a fan
Of silver as the rondo slows; now reels
Begin on tilted violins to span

The whole revolving tall glass palace hall
Where guests slide gliding into light like wine;
Rose candles flicker on the lilac wall
Reflecting in a million flagons' shine,

And glided couples all in whirling trance
Follow holiday revel begun long since,
Until near twelve the strange girl all at once
Guilt-stricken halts, pales, clings to the prince

As amid the hectic music and cocktail ...

Read the full of Cinderella

Jilted

My thoughts are crabbed and sallow,
My tears like vinegar,
Or the bitter blinking yellow
Of an acetic star.

Tonight the caustic wind, love,
Gossips late and soon,
And I wear the wry-faced pucker of
The sour lemon moon.

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