Every rose in the garden turned the gaze of her burning head.
Blinded lovers side by side cried out of solitude.
The electric lick of the dark lifted the hackles of my blood, And the roses and the lovers cried O hurry back to bed.
The hot night was spring.
—  Ted Hughes, from “Song of The Sorry Lovers” featured in The Collected Poems of Ted Hughes
Milk and blood are frail
In the shivering wind off the sea.
Only a purple flower - this amulet
(Once Prospero’s) - holds it all, a moment,
In a rinsed globe of light.
—  Ted Hughes, from A Violet at Lough Aughresberg.
I feel good with my husband: I like his warmth and his bigness and his being-there and his making and his jokes and stories and what he reads and how he likes fishing and walks and pigs and foxes and little animals and is honest and not vain or fame-crazy and how he shows his gladness for what I cook him and joy for when I make him something, a poem or a cake, and how he is troubled when I am unhappy and wants to do anything so I can fight out my soul-battles and grow up with courage and a philosophical ease. I love his good smell and his body that fits with mine as if they were made in the same body-shop to do just that. What is only pieces, doled out here and there to this boy and that boy, that made me like pieces of them, is all jammed together in my husband. So I don’t want to look around any more: I don’t need to look around for anything.
—  Sylvia Plath about her husband Ted Hughes