Sylvia Plath

Crystal Gazer

Gerd sits spindle-shanked in her dark tent, Lean face gone tawn with seasons , Skin worn down to the knucklebones At her tough trade; without time's taint The burnished ball hangs fire in her hands, a lens Fusing time's three horizons. Two enter to tap her sight, a green pair Fresh leaved out in vows: 'Come tell How we shall do together, Well or ill. ' Gerd slants a look at each: most dear, Each to the other; fit fiber for stern weather. Slowly she spins the ball: 'I see two stalwart apple trees Coupled by branches intertwined And, springing all about, Staunch saplings; to this house, thriving days Will bring crop's increase, and harvest fruit Follow on kind wind. ' 'No hardship then? ' he asks. 'We'll take Whatever trial's to come, so say true. ' His bride echoes his word. At that, Gerd whirls the ball ablaze: 'Rough storm,' she grants, ' may wreak Some havoc on tender limb, and yet Strengthen that orchard thereby. ' Their small price paid, these wedded ones Walk forth into sun-moneyed air, quickened To savor their span of flourishing. Aloof, squatting mummy-wise, Gerd scans That clairvoyant quartz which once, at her own wishing, Exacted her first simple sight for this strict second. Then, a free-gadding hoyden, Gerd had craved To govern more sight than given to a woman By wits alone: to foresee her lover's faith And their future lot, she braved Church curse to ken that crooked oath Whereby one hires a demon. A flash like doomcrack rent night's black: God's work stood anchored in that glare Focusing all time's day-suns in one So beggar Gerd might aim her look At gorgon-prospects with power to strike to stone Hearts of those who pierced time's core. What Gerd saw then engraved her mind —- Plague-pitted as the moon: each bud Shriveling to cinders at its source, Each love blazing blind to its gutted end —- And, fixed in the crystal center, grinning fierce: Earth's ever-green death's head.