In the flat where William Butler Yeats
had ridden the Gyre of mind,
Sylvia, with son and daughter,
came to spend the last of her time.
An angel, Ariel, visited
and spoke such lovely lines.
Sylvia hastened to write them down
though her pen froze at times.
Her doctor was concerned for her:
Her depression was profound
Despite the drugs that he prescribed
Her soul gyrated down.
Her husband had abandoned her
and their two babes besides.
A darker angel came to her
and whispered “suicide.”
Three days before St. Valentines
in Nineteen sixty three.
Her nurse received no answer
there at number twenty Three.
Fearful for the children,
the nurse had to get inside
Police where called and
the door was forced, but
sadly, not in time.
The smell of gas, pervasive,
in the room where Sylvia died.
Her two little ones were rescued-
Her death ruled a suicide.