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More poems by Sylvia PlathSylvia Plath | Print this page.Print | View and Write CommentsComments (1) | Books by Sylvia PlathBooks by Sylvia Plath

Strumpet Song

Sylvia Plath

With white frost gone
And all green dreams not worth much,
After a lean day's work
Time comes round for that foul slut:
Mere bruit of her takes our street
Until every man,
Red, pale or dark,
Veers to her slouch.

Mark, I cry, that mouth
Made to do violence on,
That seamed face
Askew with blotch, dint, scar
Struck by each dour year.
Walks there not some such one man
As can spare breath
To patch with brand of love this rank grimace
Which out from black tarn, ditch and cup
Into my most chaste own eyes
Looks up.

Added: 7 Sep 2001 | Last Read: 21 Apr 2018 5:02 PM | Viewed: 7853 times

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URL: http://plagiarist.com/poetry/1436/ | Viewed on 21 April 2018.
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