Recantation Tea leaves I´ve given up, And the crooked line On the queen´s palm Is no more my concern. On my black pilgrimage This moon-pocked crystal ball Will break before it help; Rather than croak out What´s to come, My darling ravens are flown. Forswear those freezing tricks of sight And all else I´ve taught Against the flower in the blood: Not wealth nor wisdom stands Above the simple vein, The straigth mouth, Go to your greenhorn youth Before time ends And do good With your white hands. Sylvia Plath, 1956