In the quiet shadows of the nursery’s glow,
Where lullabies whisper secrets untold,
Sylvia cradled dreams, both new and old,
A mother’s heart, in the moonlight, aglow.

The weight of words, a pen’s gentle caress,
Scribbling verses, while lullabies confess,
The joys and sorrows, a mother’s duress,
In Sylvia’s poems, pure tenderness.

Nights filled with cries and tender sighs,
The world outside, a daunting guise,
Yet in her arms, a child’s bright eyes,
Held the universe, beneath night skies.

Her verses sang of love and strife,
Of motherhood’s dance, amid life’s rife,
Sylvia Plath, in every line, alive,
In motherhood’s embrace, she thrived.