Even the sun-clouds this morning cannot manage such skirts.
Nor the woman in the ambulance
Whose red heart blooms through her coat so astoundingly ----A gift, a love gift
Utterly unasked for
By a skyPalely and flamily
Igniting its carbon monoxides, by eyes
Dulled to a halt under bowlers.O my God, what am I
That these late mouths should cry open
In a forest of frost, in a dawn of cornflowers.
Excuse me, Montague.. It's Plath's reign once again.