Sylvia Plath — Flute Notes from a Reedy Pond

Now coldness comes sifting down, layer after layer, To our bower at the lily root. Overhead the old umbrellas of summer Wither like pithless hands. There is little shelter. Hourly the eye of the sky enlarges its blank Dominion. The stars are no nearer. Already frog-mouth and fish-mouth drink The liquor of indolence, and all things sink Into a soft caul of forgetfulness. The fugitive colors die. Caddis worms drowse in their silk cases, The lamp-headed nymphs are nodding to sleep like statues. Puppets, loosed from the strings of the puppet-master, Wear masks of horn to bed. This is not death, it is something safer. The wingy myths won’t tug at us any more: The molts are tongueless that sang from above the water Of golgotha at the tip of a reed, And how a god flimsy as a baby’s finger Shall unhusk himself and steer into the air.