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The ground has on its clothes. The trees poke out of sheets and each branch wears the sock of God.

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
Trees
Snow
Winter
Poke
Ground
Sock
Clothes
Wears
Tree
Branch
Sheets
Branches

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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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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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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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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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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I try to take care and be gentle to them. Words and eggs must be handled with care. Once broken they are impossible things to repair.
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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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Don't bite till you know if it's bread or stone.
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Father, you died once, salted down at fifty-nine, packed down like a big snow angel, wasn't that enough?
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My business is words. Words are like labels, or coins, or better, like swarming bees.
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Watch out for intellect, because it knows so much it knows nothing and leaves you hanging upside down, mouthing knowledge as your heart falls out of your mouth.
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I am younger each year at the first snow.
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I think I've been writing black poems all along, wearing my white mask. I'm always the victim ... but no longer!
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I'm the crazy one who thinks that words reach people.
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Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.
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O starry night, This is how I want to die
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As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.
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I was only sitting here in my white study with the awful black words pushing me around.
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Today is made of yesterday, each time I steal toward rites I do not know, waiting for the lost ingredient, as if salt or money or even lust would keep us calm and prove us whole at last.
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I burn the way money burns.
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Suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.
Anne Sexton