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Why should it happen that among the great many women whom I see and am fond of, suddenly somebody I meet for half an hour opens the door into poetry?

May Sarton

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May Sarton
Age: 83 †
Born: 1912
Born: May 3
Died: 1995
Died: July 16
Diarist
Poet
Writer
May Eleanor Sarton
Somebody
Opens
Happen
Suddenly
Hours
Hour
Half
Door
Happens
Meet
Women
Among
Many
Poetry
Great
Doors
Fond

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We are all, whether we know it or not, in search of a way to enrich, to drink during the fizz, to inhale deeper our gifts, in a desperation for some little understanding before death.
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Inside my mother's death / I lay and could not breathe.
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You can't plan for a seizure of feeling, and for this reason I put everything else aside when I'm inspired.
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The only way through pain…is to absorb, probe, understand exactly what it is and what it means. To close the door on pain is to miss the chance for growth.
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They are commiting murder who merely live.
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The fact is that I have lived with the belief that power, any kind of power, was the one thing forbidden to poets. ... Power requires that the inner person never be unmasked. No, we poets have to go naked. And since this is so, it is better that we stay private people a naked public person would be rather ridiculous, what?
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Love is our human miracle.
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True feeling justifies whatever it may cost.
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Where music thundered let the mind be still, Where the will triumphed let there be no will, What light revealed, now let the dark fulfill.
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Nobody stays special when they're old, Anna. That's what we have to learn.
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we are never done with thinking about our parents, I suppose, and come to know them better long after they are dead than we ever did when they were alive.
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Absence becomes the greatest Presence.
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Time unbounded is hard to handle.
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I feel like an inadequate machine, a machine that breaks down at crucial moments, grinds to a dreadful hault, 'won't go,' or, even worse, explodes in some innocent person's face.
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She became for me an island of light, fun, wisdom where I could run with my discoveries and torments and hopes at any time of day and find welcome.
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I’m only able to write poetry, for the most part, when I have a Muse, a woman who focuses the world for me.
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Once more I realize that solitude is my element, and the reason is that extreme awareness of other people (all naturally solitary people must feel this) precludes awareness of one's self, so after a while the self no longer knows that it exists.
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What is destructive is impatience, haste, expecting too much too fast.
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There the door is always open into the “holy” — growth, birth, death.
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I sometimes imagine that as one grows older one comes to live a role which as a young person one merely 'played.
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