"This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary. <br />The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue. <br />The grasses unload their griefs at my feet as if I were God, <br />Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility. <br />Fumy spiritious mists inhabit this place <br />Separated from my house by a row of headstones. <br />I simply cannot see where there is to get to. <br /> <br />The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right, <br />White as a knuckle and terribly upset. <br />It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet <br />With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here. <br />Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky - <br />Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection. <br />At the end, they soberly bong out their names. <br /> <br />The yew tree points up. It has a Gothic shape. <br />The eyes lift after it and find the moon. <br />The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary. <br />Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls. <br />How I would like to believe in tenderness - <br />The face of the effigy, gentled by candles, <br />Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes. <br /> <br />I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering <br />Blue and mystical over the face of the stars. <br />Inside the church, the saints will be all blue, <br />Floating on their delicate feet over cold pews, <br />Their hands and faces stiff with holiness. <br />The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild. <br />And the message of the yew tree is blackness - blackness and silence."<br /><br />Sylvia Plath<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-moon-and-the-yew-tree/
