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Sylvia Plath - Vanity Fair
Work rating: Medium

Through frost-thick weather
This witch sidles, fingers crooked, as if
Caught in a hazardous medium that might 
Merely by its continuing
Attach her to heaven.

At eye`s envious corner
Crow`s-feet copy veining on a stained leaf;
Cold squint steals sky`s color; while bruit
Of bells calls holy ones, her tongue
Backtalks at the raven

Claeving furred air
Over her skull`s midden; no knife
Rivals her whetted look, divining what conceit
Waylays simple girls, church-going,
And what heart`s oven

Craves most to cook batter
Rich in strayings with every amorous oaf,
Ready, for a trinket,
To squander owl-hours on bracken bedding,
Flesh unshriven.

Against virgin prayer
This sorceress sets mirrors enough
To distract beauty`s thought;
Lovesick at first fond song,
Each vain girl`s driven

To believe beyond heart`s flare
No fire is, nor in any book proof
Sun hoists soul up after lids fall shut;
So she wills all to the black king.
The worst sloven

Vies with best queen over
Right to blaze as satan`s wife;
Housed in earth, those million brides shriek out.
Some burn short, some long,
Staked in pride`s coven.
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