Quote

Daisies in water are the longest lasting flower you can give to someone. Fact. Buy daisies. Not roses.

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
Rose
Flower
Water
Fact
Facts
Daisies
Someone
Longest
Give
Roses
Giving
Lasting

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There is an animal inside me, clutching fast to my heart, a huge crab.
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women are born twice.
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Jewels! Today each twig is important, each ring, each infection, each form is all that the gods must have meant.
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Home is my Bethlehem, my succoring shelter, my mental hospital, my wife, my dam, my husband, my sir, my womb, my skull.
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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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I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.
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The man inside of woman ties a knot so that they will never again be separate.
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This is what poems are: with mercy for the greedy, they are the tongue's wrangle, the world's pottage, the rat's star.
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I suffer for birds and fireflies but not frogs, she said, and threw him across the room. Kaboom! Like a genie out of a samovar, a handsome prince arose in the corner of the bedroom.
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Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
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God has a brown voice, as soft and full as beer.
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I think of myself as writing for one person, that one perfect reader who understands and loves.
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Oh sharp diamond, my mother! I could not count the cost of all your faces, your moods that present that I lost. Sweet girl, my deathbed, my jewel-fingered lady...
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Poor thing. To die and never see Brooklyn.
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God went out of me as if the sea dried up like sandpaper, as if the sun became a latrine.
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Suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.
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stop the darkness and its amputations and find the real McCoy in the private holiness of my hands.
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It's a little mad, but I believe I am many people. When I am writing a poem, I feel I am the person who should have written it.
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The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives
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To die whole, riddled with nothing but desire for it, is like breakfast after love.
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