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Barren Woman

Empty, I echo to the least footfall,
Museum without statues, grand with pillars, porticoes, rotundas.
In my courtyard a fountain leaps and sinks back into itself,
Nun—hearted and blind to the world. Marble lilies
Exhale their pallor like scent.
 
I imagine myself with a great public,
Mother of a white Nike and several bald—eyed Apollos.
Insread, the dead injure me attentions, and nothing can happen.
Blank—faced and mum as a nurse.
Other works by Sylvia Plath ...



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