Sylvia Plath — Small Hours

Empty, I echo to the least footfall, Museum without statues, grand with pillars, porticoes, rotundas, In my courtyard a fountain leaps and sinks back into itself, Nun-hearted and blind to the world. Marble lilies Exhale their pallor like scent. I imagine myself with a great public, Mother of a white Nike and several bald-eyed Apollos. Instead, the dead injure me with attentions, and nothing can happen. The moon lays a hand on my forehead, Blank-faced and mum as a nurse.