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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
Saint
Poet
Exuberance
Saints
Moderation
Poets

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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It's all a matter of history. Brandy is no solace. Librium only lies me down like a dead snow queen. Yes! I am still the criminal.
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Everyone has left me except my muse, that good nurse. She stays in my hand, a mild white mouse.
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I remember the stink of the liverwurst. How I was put on a platter and laid between the mayonnaise and the bacon. The rhythm of the refrigerator had been disturbed.
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The snow has quietness in it no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.
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I like you your eyes are full of language. [Letter to Anne Clarke, July 3, 1964.]
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Evil is maybe lying to God. Or better, lying to love.
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What's the point of fighting the dollars when all you need is a warm bed? When the dog barks you let him in. All we need is someone to let us in. And one other thing: to consider the lilies in the field.
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When the cow gives blood and the Christ is born we must all eat sacrifices. We must all eat beautiful women.
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But my future is a secret. / It is as shy as a mole.
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Somebody who should have been born is gone. Yes, woman, such logic will lead to loss without death. Or say what you meant, you coward . . . this baby that I bleed.
Anne Sexton
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My faith is a great weight hung on a small wire, as doth the spider hang her baby on a thin web.
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I will be steel! I will build a steel bridge over my need! I will build a bomb shelter over my heart! But my future is a secret. It is as shy as a mole.
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I would sell my life to avoid the pain that begins in the crib with its bars or perhaps with your first breath when the planets drill your future into you.
Anne Sexton
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My heart is on a budget. It keeps me on the brink.
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Poets are sitting in my kitchen. Why do these poets lie? Why do children get children and Did you hear what it said?
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It was as if a morning-glory had bloomed in her throat, and all that blue and small pollen ate into my heart, violent and religious
Anne Sexton
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I put the gold star up in the front window beside the flag. Alterations is what I know and what I did: hems, gussets and seams.
Anne Sexton
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I was the girl of the chain letter, the girl full of talk of coffins and keyholes, the one of the telephone bills, the wrinkled photo and the lost connections.
Anne Sexton
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Maybe I am becoming a hermit, opening the door for only a few special animals? Maybe my skull is too crowded and it has no opening through which to feed it soup?
Anne Sexton
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I am in my own mind. I am locked in the wrong house.
Anne Sexton