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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
Younger
Snow
Year
Firsts
First
Years

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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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My life has appeared unclothed in court, detail by detail, death-bone witness by death-bone witness, and I was shamed at the verdict.
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To tell the truth days are all the same size and words aren't much company.
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Blind with love, my daughter has cried nightly for horses, those long-necked marchers and churners that she has mastered, any and all, reigning them in like a circus hand.
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Well, one gets out of bed and the planets don't always hiss or muck up the day, each day.
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There is joy in all: in the hair I brush each morning, in the Cannon towel, newly washed, that I rub my body with each morning.
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Come, my pretender, my fritter, my bubbler, my chicken biddy! Oh succulent one, it is but one turn in the road and I would be a cannibal!
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One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.
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O yellow eye, let me be sick with your heat, let me be feverish and frowning.
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No matter whose bed you die in the bed will be yours for your voyage onto the surgical andiron of God.
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Fear / a motor, / pumps me around and around / until I fade slowly.
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I would like a simple life / yet all night I am laying / poems away in a long box.
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we do not explain my husband's insane abuse and we do not say why your wild-haired wife has fled or that my father opened like a walnut and then was dead. Your palms fold over me like knees. Love is the only use.
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I leave you, home, when I'm ripped from the doorstep by commerce or fate. Then I submit to the awful subway of the world.
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I must always forget how one word is able to pick out another, to manner another, until I have got something I might have said... but did not.
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True. There is a beautiful Jesus. He is frozen to his bones like a chunk of beef. How desperately he wanted to pull his arms in! How desperately I touch his vertical and horizontal axes! But I can't. Need is not quite belief.
Anne Sexton
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being sixteen in the pants I died full of questions
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I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.
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Be careful of words, / ... they can be both daisies and bruises.
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I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.
Anne Sexton