Sylvia Plath – The Dead (Poem)

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Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.
– Sylvia Plath-

On February 10, 1963 Sylvia Plath was found dead of carbon monoxide poisoning in her kitchen. Plath had placed her head in the oven, while the gas was turned on and the pilot light unlit. She was 30.

***The Dead***
By Sylvia Plath

Revolving in oval loops of solar speed,
Couched in cauls of clay as in holy robes,
Dead men render love and war no heed,
Lulled in the ample womb of the full-tilt globe.

No spiritual Caesars are these dead;
They want no proud paternal kingdom come;
And when at last they blunder into bed
World-wrecked, they seek only oblivion.

Rolled round with goodly loam and cradled deep,
These bone shanks will not wake immaculate
To trumpet-toppling dawn of doomstruck day :
They loll forever in colossal sleep;
Nor can God’s stern, shocked angels cry them up
From their fond, final, infamous decay.

R.I.P.

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2 Responses to Sylvia Plath – The Dead (Poem)

  1. Bre:) says:

    Bamm this poem is crazyy && i love the picture haha not that its funny that she died:)

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