Which Book of Sylvia Plath's is "Tree of Life" located in?
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1lanib
"Sometimes I dream of a tree,
And the tree is my life.
One branch is the man I shall marry
And the leaves my children.
Another branch is my future as a writer
And each leaf is a poem.
Another branch is a glittering academic career.
But as I sit there, trying to choose,
The leaves begin to turn brown and blow away
Until the tree is absolutely bare."
Sylvia Plath, The Tree of Life
I cannot find which book this poem was published in and I need to cite the poem for a research paper. Does anyone know which of her works this was published in?
Thanks!
And the tree is my life.
One branch is the man I shall marry
And the leaves my children.
Another branch is my future as a writer
And each leaf is a poem.
Another branch is a glittering academic career.
But as I sit there, trying to choose,
The leaves begin to turn brown and blow away
Until the tree is absolutely bare."
Sylvia Plath, The Tree of Life
I cannot find which book this poem was published in and I need to cite the poem for a research paper. Does anyone know which of her works this was published in?
Thanks!
2gtg427s
This isn't an actual poem by Plath. It was a poetic interpretation from her book, The Bell Jar:
I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig-tree in the story.
From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and off-beat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn’t quite make out.
I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig-tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to describe, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the group at my feet.
I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig-tree in the story.
From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and off-beat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn’t quite make out.
I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig-tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to describe, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the group at my feet.
