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Sylvia Plath - The Beggars
Work rating: Low

Nightfall, cold eye—neither disheartens
These goatish tragedians who
Hawk misfortune like figs and chickens

And, plaintiff against each day, decry
Nature`s partial, haphazard thumb.
Under white wall and Moorish window

Grief`s honest grimace, debased by time,
Caricatures itself and thrives
On the coins of pity. At random

A beggar stops among eggs and loaves,
Props a leg-stump upon a crutch,
Jiggles his tin cup at the goodwives.

By lack and loss these beggars encroach
On spirits tenderer than theirs,
Suffering-toughened beyond the fetch

Of finest conscience.
Nightfall obscures
The bay`s sheer, extravagant blue,
White house and almond grove. The beggars

Outlast their evilest star, wryly
And with a perfidious verve
Baffle the dark, the pitying eye.
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