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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 apple-tree 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,
