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Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.

Anne Sexton

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Anne Sexton
Age: 45 †
Born: 1928
Born: November 9
Died: 1974
Died: October 4
Poet
Writer
Newton
Massachusetts
Anne Gray Harvey
Exuberance
Saints
Moderation
Poets
Saint
Poet

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.
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For I could not read or speak and on the long nights I could not turn the moon off or count the lights of cars across the ceiling.
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Rats live on no evil star
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I brush my hair, waiting in the pain machine for my bones to get hard, for the soft, soft bones that were laid apart and were screwed together. They will knit. And the other corpse, the fractured heart, I feed it piecemeal, little chalice. I'm good to it.
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Talk to me about sadness. I talk about it too much in my own head but I never mind others talking about it either I occasionally feel like I tremendously need others to talk about it as well.
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All I am is the trick of words writing themselves.
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Thief!- how did you crawl into, crawl down alone into the death I wanted so badly and for so long.
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Now, in my middle age, about nineteen in the head I'd say, I am rowing, I am rowing.
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Today life opened inside me like an egg.
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Suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.
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I am crazy as hell, but I know it. And knowing it is a kind of sanity that makes the sickness worse.
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I imitatea memory of beliefthat I do not own.
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... and my love stays bitterly glowing, spasms of it will not sleep, and I am helpless and thirsty and need shade but there is no one to cover me- not even God.
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The little girl skipped by under the wrinkled oak leaves and held fast to a replica of herself.
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I love the word warm. It is almost unbearable-- so moist and breathlike.
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Our children tremble in their teen-age cribs, whirling off on a thumb or a motorcycle.
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Poems aren't postcards to send home.
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Earth, earthriding your merry-go-roundtoward extinction,right to the rootsthickening the oceans like gravy,festering in your caves,you are becoming a latrine.
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Poor thing. To die and never see Brooklyn.
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All considerations for these human remains! They must have an escort! They are classified!
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