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

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Abundance is scooped from abundance yet abundance remains.
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Daylight is nobody's friend. God comes in like a landlord and flashes on his brassy lamp.
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Poetry is my life, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face.
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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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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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Thumbs grow into my throat. I wear slaps like a spot of rouge.
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God owns heaven but He craves the earth.
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I keep feeling that there isn't one poem being written by any one of us - or a book or anything like that. The whole life of us writers, the whole product I guess I mean, is the one long poem - a community effort if you will. It's all the same poem. It doesn't belong to any one writer - it's God's poem perhaps. Or God's people's poem.
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You cutting the lawn, fixing the machines, all this leprous day and then more vodka, more soda and the pond forgiving our bodies, the pond sucking out the throb.
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All considerations for these human remains! They must have an escort! They are classified!
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Watch out for love (unless it is true, and every part of you says yes including the toes), it will wrap you up like a mummy, and your scream won't be heard and none of your running will run.
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Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.
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being sixteen in the pants I died full of questions
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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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I tell it stories now and then and feed it images like honey. I will not speculate today with poems that think they're money.
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In a dream you are never eighty.
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There is rust in my mouth,the stain of an old kiss.
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It was as if a morning-glory had bloomed in her throat, and all that blue and small pollen ate into my heart, violent and religious
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I am teaching... This year it's kind of like having a love affair with a rhinoceros.
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As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.
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