Conversation Among the Ruins

William Heath Robinson

Conversation Among the Ruins

Through portico of my elegant house you stalk

With your wild furies, disturbing garlands of fruit

And the fabulous lutes and peacocks, rending the net

Of all decorum which holds the whirlwind back.

Now, rich order of walls is fallen; rooks croak

Above the appealing ruin; in bleak light

Of your stormy eye, magic takes flight

Like a daunted witch, quitting castle when real days break.

Fractured pillars frame prospects of rock;

While you stand heroic in coat and tie, I sit

Composed in Grecian tunic and psyche-knot,

Rooted to your black look, the play turned tragic:

which such blight wrought on our bankrupt estate,

What ceremony of words can patch the havoc?

Sylvia Plath 

Things are not always good. I don't think anyone has ever written as well about marital clashes as Sylvia Plath has. How she describes her world as a beautifully arranged, fabulous place that has now come to utter ruin. Over-dramatic? Probably. But I can attest - that is exactly how it feels.