By Sylvia PlathOctober 4, 1958 Flintlike, her feet struck such a racket of echoes from the steely street,tacking in moon-blued crooks from the black stone-built town, that she heard the quick air ignite  its tinder and shake a firework of echoes from wall to wall of the dark, dwarfed cottages.But the echoes died at her back as the walls gave way to fields and the incessant seethe of grasses  riding in the full of the moon, manes to the wind, tireless, tied, as a moon-bound seamoves on its root. Though a mist-wraith wound up from the fissured valley and hung shoulder-high  ahead, it fattened to no family-featured ghost, nor did any word body with a namethe blank mood she walked in. Once past the dream-peopled village, her eyes entertained no dream,  and the sandman’s dust lost lustre under her footsoles. The long wind, paring her person downto a pinch of flame, blew its burdened whistle in the whorl of her ear, and, like a scooped-out…