a poem
Apologies for posting twice but I found this scribbled on a scrap of paper while cleaning out my desk and had to share. It's from a book of diary entries by Sylvia Plath I found one day in the library a couple of semesters ago. She had copied it into her diary.
Aubade, by Louis Macneice
Having bitten on life like a sharp apple
Or, playing it like a fish, been happy,
Having felt with fingers that the sky is blue
What have we after that to look forward to?
Not the twilight of the gods but a precise dawn
Of sallow and grey bricks, and newsboys crying war.
I love that line about playing life like a fish.
Aubade, by Louis Macneice
Having bitten on life like a sharp apple
Or, playing it like a fish, been happy,
Having felt with fingers that the sky is blue
What have we after that to look forward to?
Not the twilight of the gods but a precise dawn
Of sallow and grey bricks, and newsboys crying war.
I love that line about playing life like a fish.