The horizons ring me like faggots, <br />Tilted and disparate, and always unstable. <br />Touched by a match, they might warm me, <br />And their fine lines singe <br />The air to orange <br />Before the distances they pin evaporate, <br />Weighting the pale sky with a soldier color. <br />But they only dissolve and dissolve <br />Like a series of promises, as I step forward. <br /> <br />There is no life higher than the grasstops <br />Or the hearts of sheep, and the wind <br />Pours by like destiny, bending <br />Everything in one direction. <br />I can feel it trying <br />To funnel my heat away. <br />If I pay the roots of the heather <br />Too close attention, they will invite me <br />To whiten my bones among them. <br /> <br />The sheep know where they are, <br />Browsing in their dirty wool-clouds, <br />Gray as the weather. <br />The black slots of their pupils take me in. <br />It is like being mailed into space, <br />A thin, silly message. <br />They stand about in grandmotherly disguise, <br />All wig curls and yellow teeth <br />And hard, marbly baas. <br /> <br />I come to wheel ruts, and water <br />Limpid as the solitudes <br />That flee through my fingers. <br />Hollow doorsteps go from grass to grass; <br />Lintel and sill have unhinged themselves. <br />Of people the air only <br />Remembers a few odd syllables. <br />It rehearses them moaningly: <br />Black stone, black stone. <br /> <br />The sky leans on me, me, the one upright <br />Among all horizontals. <br />The grass is beating its head distractedly. <br />It is too delicate <br />For a life in such company; <br />Darkness terrifies it. <br />Now, in valleys narrow <br />And black as purses, the house lights <br />Gleam like small change.<br /><br />Sylvia Plath<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/wuthering-heights/
