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Uploaded on Jan 29, 2008
In this poem, Sylvia talks about the cemetery in Heptonstall. She was buried there in 1963.
The scene stands stubborn: skinflint trees Hoard last year's leaves, won't mourn, wear sackcloth, or turn To elegiac dryads, and dour grass Guards the hard-hearted emerald of its grassiness However the grandiloquent mind may scorn Such poverty. No dead men's cries
Flower forget-me-nots between the stones Paving this grave ground. Here's honest rot To unpick the heart, pare bone Free of the fictive vein. When one stark skeleton Bulks real, all saint's tongues fall quiet: Flies watch no reserrections in the sun.
At the essential landscape stare, stare Till your eyes foist a vision dazzling on the wind: Whatever lost ghosts flare Damned, howling in their shrouds across the moor Rave on the leash of the starving mind Which peoples the bare room, the blank, untenanted air.