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

Frog Autumn

Sylvia Plath

Summer grows old, cold-blooded mother. 
The insects are scant, skinny. 
In these palustral homes we only 
Croak and wither. 

Mornings dissipate in somnolence. 
The sun brightens tardily 
Among the pithless reeds. Flies fail us. 
he fen sickens. 

Frost drops even the spider. Clearly 
The genius of plenitude 
Houses himself elsewhere. Our folk thin 
Lamentably. 


Anonymous submission.

Added: 5 May 2003 | Last Read: 24 Jan 2018 4:16 AM | Viewed: 10776 times

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URL: http://plagiarist.com/poetry/9049/ | Viewed on 24 January 2018.
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