Sylvia Plath

The Munich Mannequins Perfection is terrible, it cannot have children.
Cold as snow breath, it tamps the wombWhere the yew trees blow like hydras,
The tree of life and the tree of lifeUnloosing their moons, month after month, to no purpose.
The blood flood is the flood of love,The absolute sacrifice.
It means: no more idols but me,Me and [...]

Walt Whitman

The past and present wilt–I have fill’d them, emptied them.
And proceed to fill my next fold of the future.
Listener up there! what have you to confide to me?
Look in my face while I snuff the sidle of evening,
(Talk honestly, no one else hears you, and I stay only a minute longer.)
Do I contradict myself?
Very well [...]