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All the oxygen of the world was in them. All the feet of the babies of the world were in them. All the crotches of the angels of the world were in them. All the morning kisses of Philadelphia were in them.

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
Baby
Feet
Kisses
Morning
Philadelphia
Happiness
Oxygen
Experience
Babies
World
Angels
Kissing
Angel

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Suddenly I'm not half the girl I used to be. There's a shadow hanging over me . . . From me to you out of my electric devil.
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Talk to me about sadness. I talk about it too much in my own head but I never mind others talking about it either I occasionally feel like I tremendously need others to talk about it as well.
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Fee-fi-fo-fum - Now I'm borrowed. Now I'm numb.
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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.
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I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.
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... man is eating the earth up like a candy bar.
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It is in the small things we see it. The child's first step, as awesome as an earthquake. The first time you rode a bike, wallowing up the sidewalk.
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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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I'll Vacuum up my stale hair, I'll pay all my neighbors' bad debts, I'll write a poem called Yellow and put my lips down to drink it up.
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She is so naked and singular. She is the sum of yourself and your dream. Climb her like a monument, step after step. She is solid.
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sorrow is easier than guilt.
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And thus Snow White became the prince's bride. The wicked queen was invited to the wedding feast and when she arrived there were red-hot iron shoes, in the manner of red-hot roller skates, clamped upon her feet.
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I am alone here in my own mind. There is no map and there is no road. It is one of a kind just as yours is.
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I'm the crazy one who thinks that words reach people.
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Despite my asbestos gloves, the cough is filling me with black, and a red powder seeps through my veins.
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Yesterday I did not want to be borrowed but this is the typewriter that sits before me and love is where yesterday is at.
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Writers are such phonies: they sometimes have wise insights but they don't live by them at all. That's what writers are like...you think they know something, but usually they are just messes.
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Be careful of words, / ... they can be both daisies and bruises.
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I've grown tired of love You are the trouble with me I watch you walk right by
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My heart is on a budget. It keeps me on the brink.
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