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

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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I think it will be a miracle if I don't someday end up killing myself.
Anne Sexton
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I keep feeling that there isn't one poem being written by any one of us - or a book or anything like that. The whole life of us writers, the whole product I guess I mean, is the one long poem - a community effort if you will. It's all the same poem. It doesn't belong to any one writer - it's God's poem perhaps. Or God's people's poem.
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Fee-fi-fo-fum - Now I'm borrowed. Now I'm numb.
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My death from the wrists, two name tags, blood worn like a corsage to bloom one on the left and one on the right.
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Pulling off the fat diamond engagement ring, pulling off the elopement wedding ring, and holding them, clicking them in thumb and forefinger, the indent of twenty-five years, like a tiny rip leaving its mark.
Anne Sexton
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I’ll put it out there: I am scarred by the nostalgic indicipherability of my own desires I an engulfed by the intimidating unknown, pushed through darkness and dragged down by the irretrievable past sweetness of my memories.
Anne Sexton
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I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.
Anne Sexton
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God went out of me as if the sea dried up like sandpaper, as if the sun became a latrine. God went out of my fingers. They became stone. My body became a side of mutton and despair roamed the slaughterhouse.
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
Anne Sexton
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A woman / who loves a woman / is forever young.
Anne Sexton
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All I am is the trick of words writing themselves.
Anne Sexton
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You lay, a small knuckle on my white bed lay, that fist like a snail, small and strong at my breast. Your lips are animals you are fed with love. At first, hunger is not wrong.
Anne Sexton
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Craft is a trick you make up to let you write the poem.
Anne Sexton
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God is only mocked by believers.
Anne Sexton
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My heart is on a budget. It keeps me on the brink.
Anne Sexton
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I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.
Anne Sexton
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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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Poetry to me is prayer.
Anne Sexton
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And the aura of you remains, remains, remains...
Anne Sexton
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Today God gives milk / and I have the pail.
Anne Sexton