The prince leans to the girl in scarlet heels,
Her green eyes slant, hair flaring in a fan
Of silver as the rondo slows; now reels
Begin on tilted violins to span

The whole revolving tall glass palace hall
Where guests slide gliding into light like wine;
Rose candles flicker on the lilac wall
Reflecting in a million flagons' shine,

And glided couples all in whirling trance
Follow holiday revel begun long since,
Until near twelve the strange girl all at once
Guilt-stricken halts, pales, clings to the prince

As amid the hectic music and cocktail talk
She hears the caustic ticking of the clock.

by Sylvia Plath

Other poems of PLATH (249)

Comments (2)

REbel! predestined rebel..... thank you for this.. really not a rebel.. me.. only at times when rebels attack... Rema
Ah... How sweet to be retired. However, I don't know quite what I would do with myself and so I will continue to obey the cockerel's call. Good poem ivor!