"Sheep In Fog"
by Sylvia Plath
The hills step off into whiteness.
People or stars
Regard me sadly, I disappoint them.
O slow
Horse the colour of rust,
Hooves, dolorous bells ----
All morning the
Morning has been blackening,
A flower left out.
My bones hold a stillness, the far
Fields melt my heart.
They threaten
To let me through to a heaven
