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Now, in my middle age, about nineteen in the head I'd say, I am rowing, I am rowing.
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
Mature
Aging
Head
Middle
Age
Rowing
Nineteen
More quotes by Anne Sexton
I was spread out dailyand examined for flaws.
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The silence is death. It comes each day with its shock to sit on my shoulder, a white bird, and peck at the black eyes and the vibrating red muscle of my mouth.
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The beautiful feeling after writing a poem is on the whole better even than after sex, and that's saying a lot.
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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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The ground has on its clothes. The trees poke out of sheets and each branch wears the sock of God.
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Let God be some tribal female who is known but forbidden.
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Blue eyes wash off sometimes.
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If you meet a cross-eyed person you must plunge into the grass, alongside the chilly ants, fish through the green fingernails and come up with the four-leaf clover.
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The place I live in is a kind of maze and I keep seeking the exit or the home.
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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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So I won't hang around in my hospital shift, repeating The Black Mass and all of it. I say Live, Live because of the sun, the dream, the excitable gift.
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I am out of practice at living. You are as brave as a motorcycle.
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I imitatea memory of beliefthat I do not own.
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Thief!- how did you crawl into, crawl down alone into the death I wanted so badly and for so long.
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I am crazy as hell, but I know it. And knowing it is a kind of sanity that makes the sickness worse.
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When the cow gives blood and the Christ is born we must all eat sacrifices. We must all eat beautiful women.
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Poor thing. To die and never see Brooklyn.
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life is a trick, life is a kitten in a sack.
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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.
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There is a good look that I wear like a blood clot. I have sewn it over my left breast. I have made a vocation of it.
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