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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.

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
Still
Floats
Hanging
Boat
Sea
Future
Stills
Doe
Home
Fog

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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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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unless I can shake myself free of my dog, my flag, of my desk, my mind, I find life a bit of a drag. Not always, mind you. Usually I'm like my frying pan useful, graceful, sturdy and with no caper, no plan.
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The Saints come, as human as a mouth, with a bag of God in their backs, like a hunchback, they come, they come marching in.
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The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives
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The sea is mother-death and she is a mighty female, the one who wins, the one who sucks us all up.
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Inside many of us is a small old man who wants to get out.
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There is hope. There is hope everywhere. Today God give milk and I have the pail.
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Somebody who should have been born is gone.
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My husband sings Baa Baa black sheep and we pretend that all's certain and good, that the marriage won't end.
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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
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I did not know the woman I would be nor that blood would bloom in me each month like an exotic flower, nor that children, two monuments, would break from between my legs.
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Home is my Bethlehem, my succoring shelter, my mental hospital, my wife, my dam, my husband, my sir, my womb, my skull.
Anne Sexton
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it was my first doll that water went into and water came out of much earlier it was the diaper I wore and the dirt thereof and my mother hating me for it
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Our checks are pale. Our wallets are invalids. Past due, past due, is what our bills are saying and yet we kiss in every corner, scuffing the dust and the cat. Love rises like bread as we go bust.
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sorrow is easier than guilt.
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But my future is a secret. / It is as shy as a mole.
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But suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build. Twice I have so simply declared myself, have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy, have taken on his craft, his magic.
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Even without wars, life is dangerous.
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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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Then God spoke to me and said: People say only good things about Christmas. If they want to say something bad, they whisper.
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