Water in the millrace, through a sluice of stone, <br />plunges headlong into that black pond <br />where, absurd and out-of-season, a single swan <br />floats chaste as snow, taunting the clouded mind <br />which hungers to haul the white reflection down. <br /> <br />The austere sun descends above the fen, <br />an orange cyclops-eye, scorning to look <br />longer on this landscape of chagrin; <br />feathered dark in thought, I stalk like a rook, <br />brooding as the winter night comes on. <br /> <br />Last summer's reeds are all engraved in ice <br />as is your image in my eye; dry frost <br />glazes the window of my hurt; what solace <br />can be struck from rock to make heart's waste <br />grow green again? Who'd walk in this bleak place?<br /><br />Sylvia Plath<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/winter-landscape-with-rocks/
