It is clear that we do not exactly choose our poems; our poems choose us. — May Sarton Copy Share Image
I live alone, perhaps for no good reason, for the reason that I am an impossible creature, set apart by a temperament… — May Sarton Copy Share Image
Poems like to have a destination for their flight. They are homing pigeons. — May Sarton Copy Share Image
I write poems, have always written them, to transcend the painfully personal and reach the universal. — May Sarton Copy Share Image
When one's not writing poems - and I'm not at the moment - you wonder how you ever did it. It's like… — May Sarton Copy Share Image
each new poem is partly propelled by the formal energies of all the poems that have preceded it in the history of… — May Sarton Copy Share Image
“I felt pain like an assault, The old pain again When the world thrusts itself inside, When we have to take in the outside,… — May Sarton Copy Share Image
This suspension of one's own reality, this being entirely alone in a strange city (at times I wondered if I had lost the power… — May Sarton Copy Share Image
Real joy is becoming exceedingly rare among artists of any kind. And I have an idea that those who can and do communicate it… — May Sarton Copy Share Image
For to be desperate is to discover strength. / We die of comfort and by conflict live. — May Sarton Copy Share Image
“I see you with that shell Held to your sensitive abstracted ear, Hunting the ocean’s rumor till you hear it well, Until you can… — May Sarton Copy Share Image
There is a wilder solitude in winter When every sense is pricked alive and keen. — May Sarton Copy Share Image
I long for the bulbs to arrive, for the early autumn chores are melancholy, but the planting of bulbs is the work of hope… — May Sarton Copy Share Image
Why is it that people who cannot show feeling presume that that is a strength and not a weakness? — May Sarton Copy Share Image
Innocence is not pure so much as pleased, Always expectant, bright-eyed, self-enclosed — May Sarton Copy Share Image
