On the Death of a Poet
(Sylvia Plath, d. 11 February 1963)

Death is a skylight/
   Escape hatch.
Twenty years ago
You crawled through
(I was only four)
Thirty-three is so young, but
You were destined
    To immortality
Somehow, you knew this
And worked feverishly/
Hot, early morning reveries
       To posterity
You lived/
       You existed; suffered
              And now,
You lie in your
Icebox/Baby Crib
In Yorkshire, becoming
Somewhat
More than a human being.
              (c) 6 January 1983