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

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One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.
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Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
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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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I think it will be a miracle if I don't someday end up killing myself.
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this is no dream just my oily life where the people are alibis and the street is unfindable for an entire lifetime.
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Daisies in water are the longest lasting flower you can give to someone. Fact. Buy daisies. Not roses.
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All who love have lied.
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It's all a matter of history. Brandy is no solace. Librium only lies me down like a dead snow queen. Yes! I am still the criminal.
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My eyes, those sluts, those whores, would play no more.
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They [daisies] are my favorite flower. There is something innocent and vulnerable about them as if they thanked you for admiring them.
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It is June. I am tired of being brave.
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Poor thing. To die and never see Brooklyn.
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Jesus saw the multitudes were hungry and He said, Oh Lord, send down a short-order cook.
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All I wanted was a little piece of life, to be married, to have children.... I was trying my damnedest to lead a conventional life, for that was how I was brought up, and it was what my husband wanted of me. But one can't build little white picket fences to keep the nightmares out.
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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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Our checks are pale. Our wallets are invalids. Past due, past due, is what our bills are saying and yet we kiss in every corner, scuffing the dust and the cat. Love rises like bread as we go bust.
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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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Somebody who should have been born is gone. Yes, woman, such logic will lead to loss without death. Or say what you meant, you coward . . . this baby that I bleed.
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I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.
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Love? Be it man. Be it woman. It must be a wave you want to glide in on, give your body to it, give your laugh to it, give, when the gravelly sand takes you, your tears to the land. To love another is something like prayer and can't be planned, you just fall into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.
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