Sylvia Plath - DepartureSylvia Plath - Departure
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The figs on the fig tree in the yard are green;
Green, also, the grapes on the green vine
Shading the brickred porch tiles.
The money`s run out.
How nature, sensing this, compounds her bitters.
Ungifted, ungrieved, our leavetaking.
The sun shines on unripe corn.
Cats play in the stalks.
Retrospect shall not often such penury-
Sun`s brass, the moon`s steely patinas,
The leaden slag of the world-
But always expose
The scraggy rock spit shielding the town`s blue bay
Against which the brunt of outer sea
Beats, is brutal endlessly.
Gull-fouled, a stone hut
Bares its low lintel to corroding weathers:
Across the jut of ochreous rock
Goats shamble, morose, rank-haired,
To lick the sea-salt.
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