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The stars are pears that no one can reach, even for a wedding. Perhaps for a death.

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
Even
Pears
Wedding
Reach
Perhaps
Stars
Death

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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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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I sit at my desk each night with no place to go, opening the wrinkled maps of Milwaukee and Buffalo, the whole U.S., its cemeteries, its arbitrary time zones, through routes like small veins, capitals like small stones.
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I burn the way money burns.
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The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.
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Sometimes the soul takes pictures of things it has wished for, but never seen.
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For forty days, for forty nights Jesus put one foot in front of the other and the man he carried, if it was a man, became heavier and heavier.
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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 Its mouth opens four times as out-of-date as a prehistoric monster, yet somehow man-made.
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Oh, darling, let your body in, let it tie you in, in comfort.
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we do not explain my husband's insane abuse and we do not say why your wild-haired wife has fled or that my father opened like a walnut and then was dead. Your palms fold over me like knees. Love is the only use.
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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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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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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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There is no word for time. Today we will not think to number another summer or watch its white bird into the ground.
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Some women marry houses. It's another kind of skin it has a heart, a mouth, a liver and bowel movements.
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The little girl skipped by under the wrinkled oak leaves and held fast to a replica of herself.
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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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For I could not read or speak and on the long nights I could not turn the moon off or count the lights of cars across the ceiling.
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I can only sign over everything, the house, the dog, the ladders, the jewels, the soul, the family tree, the mailbox. Then I can sleep. Maybe.
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Earth, earthriding your merry-go-roundtoward extinction,right to the rootsthickening the oceans like gravy,festering in your caves,you are becoming a latrine.
Anne Sexton
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I am torn in two but I will conquer myself.
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