Quote

I am younger each year at the first snow. When I see it, suddenly, in the air, all little and white and moving then I am in love again and very young and I believe everything.

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
Believe
White
Years
Moving
Love
Young
Littles
Younger
Little
Snow
Firsts
Suddenly
Everything
Air
First
Year

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One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.
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The stars are pears that no one can reach, even for a wedding. Perhaps for a death.
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Inside many of us is a small old man who wants to get out.
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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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The body is a damn hard thing to kill.
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Those moments before a poem comes, when the heightened awareness comes over you, and you realize a poem is buried there somewhere, you prepare yourself. I run around, you know, kind of skipping around the house, marvelous elation. It’s as though I could fly.
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When someone kisses someone or flushes the toilet it is my other who sits in a ball and cries. My other beats a tin drum in my heart. My other hangs up laundry as I try to sleep. My other cries and cries and cries when I put on a cocktail dress.
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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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Don’t worry if they say you’re crazy. They said that about me and yet I was saner than all of them. I knew. No matter. You know. Insane or sane, you know. It’s a good thing to know - no matter what they call it.
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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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All day I've built a lifetime and now the sun sinks to undo it.
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Put your mouthful of words away and come with me to watch the lilies open in such a field, growing there like yachts, slowly steering their petals without nurses or clocks.
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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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We talked death with burned-up intensity, both of us drawn to it like moths to an electric light bulb. Sucking on it!
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What a lay me down this is with two pink, two orange, two green, two white goodnights.
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Rocks crumble, make new forms, oceans move the continents, mountains rise up and down like ghosts yet all is natural, all is change.
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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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I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.
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I imitatea memory of beliefthat I do not own.
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