Plath

White 
Godiva, I unpeel---- 
Dead hands, dead stringencies.

And now I 
Foam to wheat, a glitter of seas. 
The child's cry

Melts in the wall. 
And I 
Am the arrow,

The dew that flies, 
Suicidal, at one with the drive 
Into the red

Eye, the cauldron of morning.