Amy Lowell Quotes
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Moon! Moon! I am prone before you. Pity me,and drench me in loneliness.
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Guarded within the old red wall's embrace, Marshalled like soldiers in gay company, The tulips stand arrayed. Here infantry Wheels out into the sunlight.
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So with the stretch of the white road before me, Shining snow crystals rainbowed by the sun, Fields that are white, stained with long, cool, blue shadows, Strong with the strength of my horse as we run. Joy in the touch of the wind and the sunlight! Joy! With the vigorous earth I am one.
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In my stiff, brocaded gown. With my powdered hair and jeweled fan, I too am a rare Pattern.
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My words are little jars For you to take and put upon a shelf. Their shapes are quaint and beautiful, And they have many pleasant colours and lustres To recommend them. Also the scent from them fills the room With sweetness of flowers and crushed grasses.
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All books are either dreams or swords, you can cut, or you can drug, with words.
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Not a softness anywhere about me, Only whalebone and brocade.
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In science, read by preference the newest works. In literature, read the oldest. The classics are always modern.
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This is war: Boys flung into a breach Like shoveled earth; And old men, Broken, Driving rapidly before crowds of people In a glitter of silly decorations. Behind the boys And the old men, Life weeps, And shreds her garments To the blowing winds.
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I must be mad, or very tired, When the curve of a blue bay beyond a railroad track Is shrill and sweet to me like the sudden springing of a tune, And the sight of a white church above thin trees in a city square Amazes my eyes as though it were the Parthenon.
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Can you see through the night, woman, that you stare so upon it? Man, what sparks do your eyes follow in the smouldering darkness?
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How much more beautiful is the moon, Slanting down the gauffered branches of a plum-tree; The moon Wavering across a bed of tulips; The moon, Still, Upon your face. You shine, Beloved, You and the moon. But which is the reflection?
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Now you are come! You tremble like a star Poised where, behind earth's rim, the sun has set. Your voice has sung across my heart, but numb And mute, I have no tones to answer.
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To-night when the full-bellied moon swallows the stars. Grant that I know.
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How loud clocks can tick when a room is empty, and one is alone!
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Fifteen millions of soldiers with popguns and horses All bent upon killing, because their "of courses" Are not quite the same.
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Underneath my stiffened gown Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin, A basin in the midst of hedges grown So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding, But she guesses he is near, And the sliding of the water Seems the stroking of a dear Hand upon her.
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I never deny poems when they come; whatever I am doing, whatever I am writing, I lay it aside and attend to the arriving poem.
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To understand Vers libre, one must abandon all desire to find in it the even rhythm of metrical feet. One must allow the lines to flow as they will when read aloud by an intelligent reader.
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Happiness, to some, is elation; to others it is mere stagnation.
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This is America, This vast, confused beauty, This staring, restless speed of loveliness, Mighty, overwhelming, crude, of all forms, Making grandeur out of profusion, Afraid of no incongruities, Sublime in its audacity, Bizarre breaker of moulds.
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Poetry, far more than fiction, reveals the soul of humanity.
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Art is the desire of a man to express himself, to record the reactions of his personality to the world he lives in.
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Oh! To be a flower Nodding in the sun, Bending, then upspringing As the breezes run.