Now coldness comes sifting down, layer after layer, <br />To our bower at the lily root. <br />Overhead the old umbrellas of summer <br />Wither like pithless hands. There is little shelter. <br /> <br />Hourly the eye of the sky enlarges its blank <br />Dominion. The stars are no nearer. <br />Already frog-mouth and fish-mouth drink <br />The liquor of indolence, and all thing sink <br /> <br />Into a soft caul of forgetfulness. <br />The fugitive colors die. <br />Caddis worms drowse in their silk cases, <br />The lamp-headed nymphs are nodding to sleep like statues. <br /> <br />Puppets, loosed from the strings of the puppetmaster <br />Wear masks of horn to bed. <br />This is not death, it is something safer. <br />The wingy myths won't tug at us anymore: <br /> <br />The molts are tongueless that sang from above the water <br />Of golgotha at the tip of a reed, <br />And how a god flimsy as a baby's finger <br />Shall unhusk himself and steer into the air.<br /><br />Sylvia Plath<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/flute-notes-from-a-reedy-pond/
