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I tell you what you’ll never really know: all the medical hypothesis that explained my brain will never be as true as these struck leaves letting go.

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
Really
Hypothesis
Never
Struck
Letting
Medical
Leaves
Brain
Tell
True
Explained

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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Please God, we're all right here. Please leave us alone. Don't send death in his fat red suit and his ho-ho baritone.
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All day I've built a lifetime and now the sun sinks to undo it.
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Letters are false really - they are expressions of the way you wish you were instead of the way you are.
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the marriage twists, holds firm, a sailor's knot.
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Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.
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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?
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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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My mouth blooms like a cut.
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And the aura of you remains, remains, remains...
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Once I was a couple. I was my own king and queen with cheese and bread and rosé on the rocks of Rockport.
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And what of the dead? They lie without shoes in the stone boats. They are more like stone than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.
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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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Nature is full of teeth that come in one by one, then decay, fall out.
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The beautiful feeling after writing a poem is on the whole better even than after sex, and that's saying a lot.
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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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Oh sharp diamond, my mother! I could not count the cost of all your faces, your moods that present that I lost. Sweet girl, my deathbed, my jewel-fingered lady...
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Don't bite till you know if it's bread or stone.
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The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars. Oh starry starry night! This is how I want to die.
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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.
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Yes, I know. Death sits with his key in my lock. Not one day is taken for granted. Even nursery rhymes have put me in hock.
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