Anne Sexton Quotes

Sometimes the valley below is like a bowl filled up with fog. I can see hard green figs on two trees and pears on a tree just below me. A fine crop coming in. May summer last a hundred years.

The goldenrod is yellow, The corn is turning brown, The trees in apple orchards With fruit are bending down.

Let us learn to appreciate there will be times when the trees will be bare, and look forward to the time when we may pick the fruit.

The good Husbandman may pluck His rose & gather in His lily.

Earth is here so kind, that just tickle her with a hoe and she laughs with a harvest.

We gather perfect fruit from perfect trees.

One of the first houses we lived in was like out of a fairy story. We had a stream that ran through our garden, and we played with the ducks - we locked them in my mum's office, and they pooed everywhere. It was crazy, picking blackberries and mushrooms, rabbits running through your legs.

The month of May was come, when every lusty heart beginneth to blossom, and to bring forth fruit.

Poor, dear, silly Spring, preparing her annual surprise!

The glory of gardening: hands in the dirt, head in the sun, heart with nature. To nurture a garden is to feed not just on the body, but the soul.

This morning's scene is good and fine, Long rain has not harmed the land.

Grey cloth coaxes the lime trees of friends shadowing berries dropped by the grateful earth.

Winemakers have to adapt to what they're given by nature: the vines, the fruit, the soil and the weather.

No man can taste the fruits of autumn while he is delighting his scent with the flowers of spring.

Each solstice is a domain of experience unto itself. At the Summer Solstice, all is green and growing, potential coming into being, the miracle of manifestation painted large on the canvas of awareness. At the Winter Solstice, the wind is cold, trees are bare and all lies in stillness beneath blankets of snow.

Vines will be planted, corn will spring up, a whole growth of new crops; and people will still fall in love in vintages and harvests yet to come. Life is eternal; it is a perpetual renewal of birth and growth.

The madness of spring is so enticing. I love it when things are opening up and emerging from the ground. I also love the middle of summer when fruit is bursting forth, but I even love the garden in the winter when everything is resting.

Green, the color of growth, or surgent life, enwraps the land. New green, still as individual as the plants themselves. Cool green, which will merge as the weeks pass, the Summer comes, into a canopy of shade of busy chlorophyll.

It is only to the gardener that time is a friend, giving each year more than he steals.

Once the rains abated, my father's garden thrived in the heat like an unleashed temper.

All the seasons run their race In this quiet resting-place; Peach, and apricot, and fig Here will ripen, and grow big; Here is store and overplus - More had not Alcinous!

The smell of manure, of sun on foliage, of evaporating water, rose to my head; two steps farther, and I could look down into the vegetable garden enclosed within its tall pale of reeds - rich chocolate earth studded emerald green, frothed with the white of cauliflowers, jeweled with the purple globes of eggplant and the scarlet wealth of tomatoes.

Who sows a field, or trains a flower, Or plants at tree, is more than all.