Ode For Ted

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From under the crunch of my man's bootgreen oat-sprouts jut;he names a lapwing, starts rabbits in a routlegging it most nimbleto sprigged hedge of bramble,stalks red fox, shrewd stoat

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From under the crunch of my man's boot
green oat-sprouts jut;
he names a lapwing, starts rabbits in a rout
legging it most nimble
to sprigged hedge of bramble,
stalks red fox, shrewd stoat.

Loam-humps, he says, moles shunt
up from delved worm-haunt;
blue fur, moles have; hefting chalk-hulled flint
he with rock splits open
knobbed quartz; flayed colors ripen
rich, brown, sudden in sunlight.

For his least look, scant acres yield:
each finger-furrowed field
heaves forth stalk, leaf, fruit-nubbed emerald;
bright grain sprung so rarely
he hauls to his will early;
at his hand's staunch hest, birds build.

Ringdoves roost well within his wood,
shirr songs to suit which mood
he saunters in; how but most glad
could be this adam's woman
when all earth his words do summon
leaps to laud such man's blood!

Ringdoves roost well within his wood,shirr songs to suit which moodhe saunters in; how but most gladcould be this adam's womanwhen all earth his words do summonleaps to laud such man's blood!

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Sylvia Plath PoetryWhere stories live. Discover now