Quote

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.

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
Four
Fish
Chilly
Persons
Fishes
Fingernails
Person
Grass
Alongside
Come
Cross
Eyed
Must
Crosses
Plunge
Green
Leafs
Meet
Ants
Clover
Magic
Leaf
Clovers

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I see myself as one would see another. I have been cut in two.
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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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The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.
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When I lie down to love, old dwarf heart shakes her head. Like an imbecile she was born old.
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When they turn the sun on again I'll plant children under it, I'll light up my soul with a match and let it sing.
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I love you. You are closest to my heart, closer than any other human being. You are my extension. You are my prayer. You are my belief in God. For better or worse you inherit me.
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My faith is a great weight hung on a small wire, as doth the spider hang her baby on a thin web.
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I did not know the woman I would be nor that blood would bloom in me each month like an exotic flower, nor that children, two monuments, would break from between my legs.
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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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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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What's missing is the eyeballs in each of us, but it doesn't matter because you've got the bucks, the bucks, the bucks.
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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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I think it will be a miracle if I don't someday end up killing myself.
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One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.
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Be careful of words, / ... they can be both daisies and bruises.
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Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
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Everyone has left me except my muse, that good nurse. She stays in my hand, a mild white mouse.
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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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Love your self's self where it lives.
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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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