by Sylvia Plath (1932 - 1963)

From "The Moon and the Yew Tree"
Language: English 
The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right, 
White as a knuckle and terribly upset. 
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet 
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here. 
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the [skies]* - 
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection.
At the end, they soberly bong out their names.

* Plath: "sky"

Authorship:

Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive):


Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]

This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 7
Word count: 66