Quote

There is no word for time. Today we will not think to number another summer or watch its white bird into the ground.

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
Today
Summer
Time
Number
Think
Watches
Thinking
Watch
Numbers
Word
White
Ground
Another
Bird

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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It is June. I am tired of being brave.
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I try to take care and be gentle to them. Words and eggs must be handled with care. Once broken they are impossible things to repair.
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The stars are pears that no one can reach, even for a wedding. Perhaps for a death.
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... man is eating the earth up like a candy bar.
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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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Today God gives milk / and I have the pail.
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Writers are such phonies: they sometimes have wise insights but they don't live by them at all. That's what writers are like...you think they know something, but usually they are just messes.
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My ideas are a curse. They spring from a radical discontent with the awful order of things. I play clown. I play carpenter. I play nurse. I play witch.
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I am stuffing your mouth with your promises and watching you vomit them out upon my face.
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I leave you, home, when I'm ripped from the doorstep by commerce or fate. Then I submit to the awful subway of the world.
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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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Cinderella and the prince lived, they say, happily ever after, like two dolls in a museum case never bothered by diapers or dust, never arguing over the timing of an egg, never telling the same story twice.
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And tonight our skin, our bones, that have survived our fathers, will meet, delicate in the hold, fastened together in an intricate lock. Then one of us will shout, My need is more desperate! and I will eat you slowly with kisses even though the killer in you has gotten out.
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A woman who writes feels too much.
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Of course the New Testament is very small. Its mouth opens four times as out-of-date as a prehistoric monster, yet somehow man-made.
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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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I would like a simple life / yet all night I am laying / poems away in a long box.
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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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Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.
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The sea is mother-death and she is a mighty female, the one who wins, the one who sucks us all up.
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