From my rented attic with no earth <br />To call my own except the air-motes, <br />I malign the leaden perspective <br />Of identical gray brick houses, <br />Orange roof-tiles, orange chimney pots, <br />And see that first house, as if between <br />Mirrors, engendering a spectral <br />Corridor of inane replicas, <br />Flimsily peopled. <br />But landowners <br />Own thier cabbage roots, a space of stars, <br />Indigenous peace. Such substance makes <br />My eyeful of reflections a ghost's <br />Eyeful, which, envious,would define <br />Death as striking root on one land-tract; <br />Life, its own vaporous wayfarings.<br /><br />Sylvia Plath<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/landowners/
