I know the bottom, she says.
I know it with my great tap root:
It is what you fear.
I do not fear it: I have been there.
Is it the sea you hear in me,
Its dissatisfactions?
Or the voice of nothing,
that was your madness?
Love is a shadow.
How you lie and cry after it
Listen: these are its hooves:
it has gone off, like a horse.
All night I shall gallop thus, impetuously,
Till your head is a stone,
your pillow a little turf,
Echoing, echoing.
(Sylvia Plath)
