Sylvia Plath

Song For A Revolutionary Love

O throw it away, throw it all away on the wind: first let the heavenly foliage go, and page by pride the good books blow; scatter smug angels with your hand. Undo the doings of the fathering age: chuck the broken acropolis out, fling the seven wonders after that with struts and props of the holy stage. Disrupt the calendars next; send the duteous packing without a compass or scale to chart the measure of fortune's wheel; let nothing be left to swaddle us. Unravel antique samplers, unwind the clocks, till unruly children stream down the sky and old maids on impromptu petticoats fly with begonia and building blocks. Now empty boxes of the hoodwinked dead upon the pouring air until god hears from his great sunstruck hell the chittering crackpots that he made. Then hurl the bare world like a bluegreen ball back into the holocaust to burn away the humbug rust and again together begin it all.