The Manor Garden Sylvia Plath
On this page, discover the full lyrics of the song "The Manor Garden" by Sylvia Plath. Lyrxo.com offers the most comprehensive and accurate lyrics, helping you connect with the music you love on a deeper level. Ideal for dedicated fans and anyone who appreciates quality music.
The fountains are dry and the roses over.
Incense of death. Your day approaches.
The pears fatten like little Buddhas.
A blue mist is dragging the lake.
You move through the era of fishes,
The smug centuries of the big—
Head, toe and finger
Come clear of the shadow. History
Nourishes these broken flutings,
These crowns of acanthus,
And the crow settles her garments.
You inherit white heather, a bee's wing,
Two suicides, the family wolves,
Hours of blankness. Some hard stars
Already yellow the heavens.
The spider on its own string
Crosses the lake. The worms
Quit their usual habitations.
The small birds converge, converge
With their gifts to a difficult borning.
Incense of death. Your day approaches.
The pears fatten like little Buddhas.
A blue mist is dragging the lake.
You move through the era of fishes,
The smug centuries of the big—
Head, toe and finger
Come clear of the shadow. History
Nourishes these broken flutings,
These crowns of acanthus,
And the crow settles her garments.
You inherit white heather, a bee's wing,
Two suicides, the family wolves,
Hours of blankness. Some hard stars
Already yellow the heavens.
The spider on its own string
Crosses the lake. The worms
Quit their usual habitations.
The small birds converge, converge
With their gifts to a difficult borning.
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