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I would like to bury all the hating eyes under the sand somewhere.

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
Eyes
Eye
Hate
Would
Like
Hating
Bury
Sand
Somewhere

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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Mood can be as important as sense.
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You lay, a small knuckle on my white bed lay, that fist like a snail, small and strong at my breast. Your lips are animals you are fed with love. At first, hunger is not wrong.
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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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Earth, earthriding your merry-go-roundtoward extinction,right to the rootsthickening the oceans like gravy,festering in your caves,you are becoming a latrine.
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I am younger each year at the first snow.
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Rejoice with the day lily for it is born for a day to live by the mailbox and glorify the roadside
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I, in my brand new body, which was not a woman's yet, told the stars my questions and thought God could really see the heat and the painted light, elbows, knees, dreams, goodnight.
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it was my first doll that water went into and water came out of much earlier it was the diaper I wore and the dirt thereof and my mother hating me for it
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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.
Anne Sexton
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Today is made of yesterday, each time I steal toward rites I do not know, waiting for the lost ingredient, as if salt or money or even lust would keep us calm and prove us whole at last.
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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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To die whole, riddled with nothing but desire for it, is like breakfast after love.
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Letters are false really - they are expressions of the way you wish you were instead of the way you are.
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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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Give me your skin as sheer as a cobweb, let me open it up and listen in and scoop out the dark.
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You must be a poet, a lady of evil luck desiring to be what you are not, longing to be what you can only visit.
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Only my books anoint me, and a few friends, those who reach into my veins.
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The sanest thing in this world is love.
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Emerald as heavy as a golf course, ruby as dark as an afterbirth, diamond as white as sun on the sea.
Anne Sexton
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sorrow is easier than guilt.
Anne Sexton