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Don't bite till you know if it's bread or stone.

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
Stones
Bite
Bites
Stone
Till
Bread

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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The ground has on its clothes. The trees poke out of sheets and each branch wears the sock of God.
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I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.
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I think of myself as writing for one person, that one perfect reader who understands and loves.
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The place I live in is a kind of maze and I keep seeking the exit or the home.
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Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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After a disaster strikes, it can be very devastating and very challenging. You're going to need a lot of strength and energy, and the American Red Cross suggests you go for the high protein items.
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But even in a telephone booth evil can seep out of the receiver and we must cover it with a mattress, and then tear it from its roots and bury it, bury it.
Anne Sexton
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Images are the heart of poetry ... You're not a poet without imagery.
Anne Sexton
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There is hope. There is hope everywhere. Today God give milk and I have the pail.
Anne Sexton
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Evil is maybe lying to God. Or better, lying to love.
Anne Sexton
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Watch out for intellect, because it knows so much it knows nothing and leaves you hanging upside down, mouthing knowledge as your heart falls out of your mouth.
Anne Sexton
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The sanest thing in this world is love.
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Fee-fi-fo-fum - Now I'm borrowed. Now I'm numb.
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O fallen angel, the companion within me, whisper something holy before you pinch me into the grave.
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My eyes, those sluts, those whores, would play no more.
Anne Sexton
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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.
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Our children tremble in their teen-age cribs, whirling off on a thumb or a motorcycle.
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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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With this pen I take in hand my selves and with these dead disciples I will grapple. Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
Anne Sexton
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The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not. The trade winds blow me, and I do not know where the land is the waves fold over each other they are in love with themselves sleeping in their own skin and I float over them and I do not know about tomorrow.
Anne Sexton