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Wuthering Heights Analysis

Author: Poetry of Sylvia Plath Type: Poetry Views: 1923

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The Collected Poems1961The horizons ring me like faggots,

Tilted and disparate, and always unstable.

Touched by a match, they might warm me,

And their fine lines singe

The air to orange

Before the distances they pin evaporate,

Weighting the pale sky with a soldier color.

But they only dissolve and dissolve

Like a series of promises, as I step forward.There is no life higher than the grasstops

Or the hearts of sheep, and the wind

Pours by like destiny, bending

Everything in one direction.

I can feel it trying

To funnel my heat away.

If I pay the roots of the heather

Too close attention, they will invite me

To whiten my bones among them.The sheep know where they are,

Browsing in their dirty wool-clouds,

Gray as the weather.

The black slots of their pupils take me in.

It is like being mailed into space,

A thin, silly message.

They stand about in grandmotherly disguise,

All wig curls and yellow teeth

And hard, marbly baas.I come to wheel ruts, and water

Limpid as the solitudes

That flee through my fingers.

Hollow doorsteps go from grass to grass;

Lintel and sill have unhinged themselves.

Of people and the air only

Remembers a few odd syllables.

It rehearses them moaningly:

Black stone, black stone.The sky leans on me, me, the one upright

Among all horizontals.

The grass is beating its head distractedly.

It is too delicate

For a life in such company;

Darkness terrifies it.

Now, in valleys narrow

And black as purses, the house lights

Gleam like small change.


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||| Analysis | Critique | Overview Below |||

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the poem leaks the true essence of heer nature and communicates vividly and intensely. it echoes the novels passionate and powerful essence..

| Posted on 2008-05-19 | by a guest

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The persona is obviously saddened by the events that have occured. She is stood on a hilltop in a desolate landscape and feels as though the strong winds are trying to force all life out of her (' I can feel it trying to funnel my heat away'). The persona's isolation from the world is amplified through the conceit that even lonliness runs through her fingers (' Limpid as the solitudes that flee through my fingers'). The woman is the one thing that stands proud of the landscape she is surrounded by.

| Posted on 2006-05-24 | by Approved Guest

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