She can get a chair; she can sit down and write. Facing the blank page. The blank page also faces her with freedom.
<...>
Stand with the woman by the table. Sit with the woman facing the blank page, or blank canvas. A space waiting for filling. These spaces are perfect. What is perfect terrifies.
<...>
The steam of tension evaporated. The moment passed. The fear, buried. It is easier like this. It is ordinary and safe. We hurry to fill in spaces with everydayness because spaces frighten us, but, the dividing line between fear and excitemnet is thin.
<...>
In bardic times, it was considered a great misfortune to have a poet in your family. But if the poet happened to be a woman, this was double misfortune, for she, as a woman, would have double the power. ... Magic surrounded the poet's power and this power was feared.

LP lyrics have been resonating and redefining experiences. 

​There was a time, there was a life, I was inside my head
And finally I rested in your bed..

You don't know, you're almost near it.. 

- I used him, but, you know, I paid for it, in not being known by him.
-And as for that - passion - I was so estranged from it that I could hardly remember what appetite was like or what confidence was like that would let it show.

- ... you do gain a small distance from anything by keeping it in suspension in your mind while you work on finding the words to fit it. I think this is interesting because you also lose sight if you ruminate on something in your head all the time. The difference is in one case your producing something and in the other your are sort of stuck in thought cycle. 

Now I become myself. It's taken
Time, many years and places;
I have been dissolved and shaken,
Worn other people's faces,
Run madly, as if Time were there,
Terribly old, crying a warning,
"Hurry, you will be dead before--"
(What? Before you reach the morning?
Or the end of the poem is clear?
Or love safe in the walled city?)
Now to stand still, to be here,
Feel my own weight and density!
The black shadow on the paper
Is my hand; the shadow of a word
As thought shapes the shaper
Falls heavy on the page, is heard.
All fuses now, falls into place
From wish to action, word to silence,
My work, my love, my time, my face
Gathered into one intense
Gesture of growing like a plant.
As slowly as the ripening fruit
Fertile, detached, and always spent,
Falls but does not exhaust the root,
So all the poem is, can give,
Grows in me to become the song,
Made so and rooted by love.
Now there is time and Time is young.
O, in this single hour I live
All of myself and do not move.
I, the pursued, who madly ran,
Stand still, stand still, and stop the sun!

Tell all the truth but tell it slant --
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth's superb surprise
As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind --

I need silence
and solitude
and a well-fitting word supply.
I need a secret
and an enduring sense of reality.
My assignment right now
is to try to free myself
from my own formulations.

Living is a work of sorrow.
If you don't understand that
you will never be happy.

Interesting fact: Anne Sexton was born in Newton, MA and stayed around Boston all her life.

 Eurydice Talking

​Sometimes we make it to the landing.
I do this for you, after
All, even agony prolonged becomes a joy,
And this is repetition.
The garish snapshot in your mind,

Why am I so patient?
When you place your hand 
Upon the rail, I know my name
Rumors light like running water

As you stray between the yes and no
Then turn to flood the darkness.
What can I tell you?
Desire cannot be commanded.

Once is now, this undertow
Forever. Keep turning.
It was your carelessness
That makes the song worth singing.
​Mark Irwin

[Oh no, girl... No no no no.] 
Here's a piece of advice to Eurydice more eloquently put:

Orpheus and Eurydice
Peter Paul Rubens
Fragment

This painting adds layers to the portrait of Eurydice: it shows Eurydice who, even though feeling the way she does in the poem, would cling to Orpheus out of selfish  indulgence and would have
                                    ....that idiotic,
witless glance, ebullient but oblivious

as Steve Kowit puts in in his excellent poem Eurydice