Madness is a waste of time. It creates nothing. Anne Sexton More Quotes by Anne Sexton More Quotes From Anne Sexton I'm hunting for the truth. It might be a kind of poetic truth, and not just a factual one, because behind everything that happens to you, there is another truth, a secret life. Anne Sexton huntingsecretmight Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance. Anne Sexton moderationpoetsaint Poetry is my life, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face. Anne Sexton kitchenfaceshands I would like a simple life / yet all night I am laying / poems away in a long box. Anne Sexton simplenightlong I am younger each year at the first snow. When I see it, suddenly, in the air, all little and white and moving; Anne Sexton airbelievemoving Only my books anoint me, and a few friends, those who reach into my veins. Anne Sexton few-friendsveinsbook I would like to bury Anne Sexton sandhateeye I am torn in two Anne Sexton conquerselftwo Sometimes the soul takes pictures of things it has wished for, but never seen. Anne Sexton soulsometimes We are America. Anne Sexton coffinsunited-statesamerica I'm the crazy one who thinks that words reach people. Anne Sexton crazypeoplethinking Our eyes are full of terrible confessions. Anne Sexton confessionterribleeye 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. Anne Sexton selfwritingbelieve The summer has seized you, as when, last month in Amalfi, I saw lemons as large as your desk-side globe-that miniature map of the world-and I could mention, too, the market stalls of mushrooms and garlic bugs all engorged. Or I even think of the orchard next door, where the berries are done and the apples are beginning to swell. And once, with our first backyard,I remember I planted an acre of yellow beans we couldn't eat. Anne Sexton summerdoorsthinking Rocks crumble, make new forms, Anne Sexton oceannaturechange Cinderella and the prince Anne Sexton marriagehappinessmuseums I try to take care Anne Sexton impossible-thingseggsbroken Poems aren't postcards to send home. Anne Sexton postcardshome The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart. Anne Sexton nailshearttree Being kissed on the back of the knee is a moth at the windowscreen. Anne Sexton mothsknees
