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I am younger each year at the first snow.

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
Year
Firsts
First
Years
Younger
Snow

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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The sky breaks. It sags and breathes upon my face. in the presence of mine enemies, mine enemies The world is full of enemies. There is no safe place.
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As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.
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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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Death's in the good-bye.
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Daylight is nobody's friend. God comes in like a landlord and flashes on his brassy lamp.
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Craft is a trick you make up to let you write the poem.
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I am tearing the feathers out of the pillows, waiting, waiting for Daddy to come home and stuff me so full of our infected child that I turn invisible, but married, at last.
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But even in a telephone booth evil can seep out of the receiver and we must cover it with a mattress, and then tear it from its roots and bury it, bury it.
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I grow old on my bitterness.
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I said, the poets are there I hear them singing and lying around their round table and around me still.
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The boys and girls are one tonight. They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies. They take off shoes. They turn off the light. The glimmering creatures are full of lies. They are eating each other. They are overfed. At night, alone, I marry the bed.
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My heart is on a budget. It keeps me on the brink.
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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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Today God gives milk / and I have the pail.
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But my future is a secret. / It is as shy as a mole.
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I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.
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It is a dead heart. It is inside of me. It is a stranger yet once it was agreeable, opening and closing like a clam.
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Yes I try to kill myself in small amounts, an innocuous occupation. Actually I'm hung up on it.
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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.
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Death, I need my little addiction to you. I need that tiny voice who, even as I rise from the sea, all woman, all there, says kill me, kill me.
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