Haunched like a faun, he hooed
From grove of moon—glint and fen—frost
Until all owls in the twigged forest
Flapped black to look and brood
On the call this man made.
No sound but a drunken coot
Lurching home along river bank.
Stars hung water—sunk, so a rank
Of double star—eyes lit
Boughs where those owls sat.
An arena of yellow eyes
Watched the changing shape he cut,
Saw hoof harden from foot, saw sprout
Goat—horns. Marked how god rose
And galloped woodward in that guise.
Otras obras de Sylvia Plath...