Poppies in October / Sylvia Plath

Poppies in October

Sylvia Plath

Even the sun-clouds this morning cannot manage such skirts.

Nor the woman in the ambulance

Whose red heart blooms through her coat so astoundingly --

A gift, a love gift

Utterly unasked for

By a sky

Palely and flamily

Igniting its carbon monoxides, by eyes

Dulled to a halt under bowlers.

O my God, what am I

That these late mouths should cry open

In a forest of frost, in a dawn of cornflowers.

פִּרְחֵי פָּרָג בְּאוֹקְטוֹבֶּר / סילביה פלאת'

אֲפִלּוּ עֲנָנֵי הָרוֹם הַבֹּקֶר לֹא יוּכְלוּ לְהִסְתַּדֵּר עִם אֲזוֹרִים כָּאֵלֶּה.

גַּם הָאִשָּׁה בָּאַמְבּוּלַנְס

שֶׁלְּבָבָהּ פּוֹרֵחַ לָהּ בְּמִין אָדֹם נִדְהָם-כָּל-כָּךְ מִבַּעַד לַמְּעִיל.