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Not that it was beautiful, but that I found some order there.

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
Found
Order
Beautiful

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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... a starving man doesn't ask what the meal is.
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Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
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A woman who writes feels too much.
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The silence is death. It comes each day with its shock to sit on my shoulder, a white bird, and peck at the black eyes and the vibrating red muscle of my mouth.
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All the oxygen of the world was in them. All the feet of the babies of the world were in them. All the crotches of the angels of the world were in them. All the morning kisses of Philadelphia were in them.
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I am stuffing your mouth with your promises and watching you vomit them out upon my face.
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Watch out for love (unless it is true, and every part of you says yes including the toes), it will wrap you up like a mummy, and your scream won't be heard and none of your running will run.
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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 love the word warm. It is almost unbearable-- so moist and breathlike.
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Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren
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It doesn't matter who my father was it matters who I remember he was.
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My sleeping pill is white. It is a splendid pearl it floats me out of myself, my stung skin as alien as a loose bolt of cloth.
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I am alone here in my own mind. There is no map and there is no road. It is one of a kind just as yours is.
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I grow old on my bitterness.
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Inside many of us is a small old man who wants to get out.
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I have a black look I do not like. It is a mask I try on. I migrate toward it and its frog sits on my lips and defecates.
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I, in my brand new body, which was not a woman's yet, told the stars my questions and thought God could really see the heat and the painted light, elbows, knees, dreams, goodnight.
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Take your foot out of the graveyard, they are busy being dead.
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I sit at my desk each night with no place to go, opening the wrinkled maps of Milwaukee and Buffalo, the whole U.S., its cemeteries, its arbitrary time zones, through routes like small veins, capitals like small stones.
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Take adultery or theft. Merely sins. It is evil who dines on the soul, stretching out its long bone tongue. It is evil who tweezers my heart, picking out its atomic worms.
Anne Sexton