"Child"

I've always liked this poem by Sylvia Plath. Lately as I seem to be struggling with more moodiness than usual I find myself personally identifying with it. I look into the clear eyes of my beautiful children and want to be the kind of mother that fills those eyes with "color and ducks" and things "grand and classical"--not my own "troublous wringing of hands."

(To my friends and family: don't worry, I'm only identifying with the poem, not the poet!)

Child

Your clear eye is the one absolutely beautiful thing.
I want to fill it with color and ducks,
The zoo of the new
Whose name you meditate --
April snowdrop, Indian pipe,
Little

Stalk without wrinkle,
Pool in which images
Should be grand and classical

Not this troublous
Wringing of hands, this dark
Ceiling without a star.