Miranda, The Tempest by W. Waterhouse, 1916

I spoke to
thee with a sword
and thou art silent
Thy breast is as a tomb
softer than flowers
Come hither!
Oh, thou, Is love not death!




Madonna by Edward Munch

I am inhabited by a cry.
Nightly it flaps out
Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.

I am terrified by this dark thing
That sleeps in me;
All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.

Clouds pass and disperse.
Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables?
Is it for such I agitate my heart?

Slyvia Plath