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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.

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
Life
Detail
Privacy
Witness
Bones
Details
Shamed
Regret
Verdict
Court
Bone
Death
Appeared

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.
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I'm an empress. I wear an apron. My typewriter writes. It didn't break the way it warned. Even crazy, I'm as nice as a chocolate bar.
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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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Our children tremble in their teen-age cribs, whirling off on a thumb or a motorcycle.
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Don't bite till you know if it's bread or stone.
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The body is a damn hard thing to kill.
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Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren
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I suffer for birds and fireflies but not frogs, she said, and threw him across the room. Kaboom! Like a genie out of a samovar, a handsome prince arose in the corner of the bedroom.
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Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
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To tell the truth days are all the same size and words aren't much company.
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My objects dream and wear new costumes, compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my hands and the sea that bangs in my throat.
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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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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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Yet love enters my blood like an I.V., dripping in its little white moments.
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Jewels! Today each twig is important, each ring, each infection, each form is all that the gods must have meant.
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All I am is the trick of words writing themselves.
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O fallen angel, the companion within me, whisper something holy before you pinch me into the grave.
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Yes, I know. Death sits with his key in my lock. Not one day is taken for granted. Even nursery rhymes have put me in hock.
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I tied down time with a rope but it came back. Then I put my head in a death bowl and my eyes shut up like clams. They didn't come back.
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Now, in my middle age, about nineteen in the head I'd say, I am rowing, I am rowing.
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