Quote

I will be steel! I will build a steel bridge over my need! I will build a bomb shelter over my heart! But my future is a secret. It is as shy as a mole.

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
Build
Bomb
Strength
Shy
Secret
Bridge
Future
Shelter
Need
Steel
Needs
Bombs
Mole
Heart
Resolve
Stoicism
Bridges
Moles

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.
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And if I tried to give you something else, something outside myself, you would not know that the worst of anyone can be, finally, an accident of hope
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Fear / a motor, / pumps me around and around / until I fade slowly.
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The man inside of woman ties a knot so that they will never again be separate.
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To tell the truth days are all the same size and words aren't much company.
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Poets are sitting in my kitchen. Why do these poets lie? Why do children get children and Did you hear what it said?
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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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As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.
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Once I was a couple. I was my own king and queen with cheese and bread and rosé on the rocks of Rockport.
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Be careful of words, / ... they can be both daisies and bruises.
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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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The joy that isn't shared dies young.
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I have forgiven all the old actors for dying. A new one comes on with the same lines, like large white growths, in his mouth. The dancers come on from the wings, perfectly mated.
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There is an animal inside me, clutching fast to my heart, a huge crab.
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True. There is a beautiful Jesus. He is frozen to his bones like a chunk of beef. How desperately he wanted to pull his arms in! How desperately I touch his vertical and horizontal axes! But I can't. Need is not quite belief.
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The beautiful feeling after writing a poem is on the whole better even than after sex, and that's saying a lot.
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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'll Vacuum up my stale hair, I'll pay all my neighbors' bad debts, I'll write a poem called Yellow and put my lips down to drink it up.
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Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren
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I said, the poets are there I hear them singing and lying around their round table and around me still.
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