by Sylvia Plath
Empty, I echo to the least footfall,
Museum without statues, grand with pillars,
In my courtyard a fountain leaps and sinks
back into itself,
Nun-hearted and blind to the world. Marble lilies
Exhale their pallor like scent.
I imagine myself with a great public,
Mother of a white Nike and several bald-eyed Apollos.
Insread, the dead injure me attentions, and nothing
Blank-faced and mum as a nurse.