day in, day out

warning: fast editing On The Plethora Of Dryads, By Sylvia Plath Hearing a white saint rave About a quintessential beauty Visible only to the paragon heart, I tried my sight on an appletree That for eccentric knob and wart Had all my love. Without meat or drink I sat Starving my fantasy down To discover that metaphysical Tree which hid From my worldling look its brilliant vein Far deeper in gross wood Than axe could cut. But before I might blind sense To see with the spotless soul, Each particular quirk so ravished me Every pock and stain bulked more beautiful Than flesh of any body Flawed by love s prints. Battle however I would To break through that patchwork Of leaves bicker and whisk in babel tongues, Streak and mottle of tawn bark, No visionary lightnings Pierced my dense lid. Instead, a wanton fit Dragged each dazzled sense apart Surfeiting eye,