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Everyone has left me except my muse, that good nurse. She stays in my hand, a mild white mouse.

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
Left
Mice
Hands
Muse
Good
Nurse
Except
Hand
White
Mild
Everyone
Mouse
Inspirational
Stays

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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I see myself as one would see another. I have been cut in two.
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Everyone in me is a bird I am beating all my wings
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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.
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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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Thief!- how did you crawl into, crawl down alone into the death I wanted so badly and for so long.
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And we are magic talking to itself, noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins forgotten. Am I still lost? Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself
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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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Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself, Counting this row and that row of moccasins Waiting on the silent shelf.
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the heart, this child of myself that resides in the flesh, this ultimate signature of the me, the start of my blindness and sleep, builds a death crèche.
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I would sell my life to avoid the pain that begins in the crib with its bars or perhaps with your first breath when the planets drill your future into you.
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Don't bite till you know if it's bread or stone.
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I must always forget how one word is able to pick out another, to manner another, until I have got something I might have said... but did not.
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Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.
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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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Then God spoke to me and said: People say only good things about Christmas. If they want to say something bad, they whisper.
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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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I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.
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I was the girl of the chain letter, the girl full of talk of coffins and keyholes, the one of the telephone bills, the wrinkled photo and the lost connections.
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Take adultery or theft. Merely sins. It is evil who dines on the soul, stretching out its long bone tongue. It is evil who tweezers my heart, picking out its atomic worms.
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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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