poetry is first of all a way of life and only secondarily a way of writing. — 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 set down the sound you hear:— Fixed to a shell like that you made immortal, This heart listens, this fragile auricle Holds rumor like your ocean’s, is a portal That sometimes opens to contain the miracle.… — May Sarton Copy Share
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
Innocence is not pure so much as pleased, Always expectant, bright-eyed, self-enclosed — May Sarton Copy Share Image
