My tears like vinegar,
Or the bitter blinking yellow
Of an acetic star
Tonight the caustic wind, love,
Gossips late and soon,
And I wear the wry-faced pucker of
The sour lemon moon
While like an early summer plum,
Puny, green, and tart,
Droops upon its wizened stem
My lean, unripened heart
-Sylvia Plath
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