
Sylvia Plath Bot
@SylviaPlathBot
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Tweets random bits of Sylvia Plath's poetry every hour
Joined March 2018
Napoleon is pleased, he is pleased with everything.
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I am solitary as grass. What is it I miss? Shall I ever find it, whatever it is? The swans are gone. Still the river
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Which of the poisons is it? Which of the nerve-curlers, the convulsors? Did it electrify?
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The small skulls, the smashed blue hills, the godawful hush.
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Tomorrow I will be sweet God, I will set them free.
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Through portico of my elegant house you stalk With your wild furies, disturbing garlands of fruit
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Now through her ambushed air, Adazzle with bright shards
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