Best 68 quotes of Amy Lowell on MyQuotes

A black cat among roses, phlox, lilac-misted under a quarter moon, the sweet smells of heliotrope and night-scented stock. The garden is very still. It is dazed with moonlight, contented with perfume.

All books are either dreams or swords, you can cut, or you can drug, with words.

All recurring joy is pain refined.

A man must be sacrificed now and again to provide for the next generation of men.

Art is like politics. Any theory carried too far ends in sterility, and freshness is only gained by following some other line.

Art is the desire of a man to express himself, to record the reactions of his personality to the world he lives in.

Brighter than fireflies upon the Uji River are your words in the dark, Beloved.

Can you see through the night, woman, that you stare so upon it? Man, what sparks do your eyes follow in the smouldering darkness?

Don’t ask a writer what he’s working on. It’s like asking someone with cancer on the progress of his disease.

Everything mortal has moments immortal

Fifteen millions of soldiers with popguns and horses All bent upon killing, because their "of courses" Are not quite the same.

Great emotion always tends to become rhythmic, and out of that tendency the forms of art have been evolved. Art becomes artificial only when the forms take precedence over the emotion.

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.

Happiness, to some, elation; Is, to others, mere stagnation.

Happiness, to some, is elation; to others it is mere stagnation.

Happiness: We rarely feel it. I would buy it, beg it, steal it, Pay in coins of dripping blood For this one transcendent good.

Hate is ravening vulture beaks descending on a place of skulls.

How loud clocks can tick when a room is empty, and one is alone!

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?

I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against the want of you; of squeezing it into little inkdrops, And posting it.

I ask but one thing of you, only one, That always you will be my dream of you; That never shall I wake to find untrue All this I have believed and rested on, Forever vanished, like a vision gone Out into the night. Alas, how few There are who strike in us a chord we knew Existed, but so seldom heard its tone We tremble at the half-forgotten sound. The world is full of rude awakenings And heaven-born castles shattered to the ground, Yet still our human longing vainly clings To a belief in beauty through all wrongs. O stay your hand, and leave my heart its songs!

I do not suppose that anyone not a poet can realize the agony of creating a poem. Every nerve, even every muscle, seems strained to the breaking point. The poem will not be denied; to refuse to write it would be a greater torture. It tears its way out of the brain, splintering and breaking its passage, and leaves that organ in the state of a jelly-fish when the task is done.

If what we worship fail us, still the fire burns on, and it is much to have believed.

I know that a creed is the shell of a lie.

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.

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.

In my stiff, brocaded gown. With my powdered hair and jeweled fan, I too am a rare Pattern.

I should like to bring a case to trial: Prosperity versus Beauty, Cash registers teetering in a balance against the comfort of the soul.

Life is a stream On which we strew Petal by petal the flower of our heart.

Life is a stream On which we strew Petal by petal the flower of our heart; The end lost in dream, They float past our view, We only watch their glad, early start. Freighted with hope, Crimsoned with joy, We scatter the leaves of our opening rose; Their widening scope, Their distant employ, We never shall know. And the stream as it flows Sweeps them away, Each one is gone Ever beyond into infinite ways. We alone stay While years hurry on, The flower fared forth, though its fragrance still stays.

Lilacs, False Blue, White, Purple, Colour of lilac, Your great puffs of flowers Are everywhere in this my New England ... Lilacs in dooryards Holding quiet conversation with an early moon; Lilacs watching a deserted house; ... Lilacs, wind-beaten, staggering under a lopsided shock of bloom, You are everywhere.

Love is a game-yes? I think it is a drowning.

May is much sunshine through small leaves.

Moon! Moon! I am prone before you. Pity me,and drench me in loneliness.

My heart is tuned to sorrow, and the strings Vibrate most readily to minor chords, Searching and sad; my mind is stuffed with words Which voice the passion and the ache of things: Illusions beating with their baffled wings Against the walls of circumstance.

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.

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.

Oh! To be a butterfly Still, upon a flower, Winking with its painted wings, Happy in the hour.

Oh! To be a flower Nodding in the sun, Bending, then upspringing As the breezes run.

Only those of our poets who kept solidly to the Shakespearean tradition achieved any measure of success. But Keats was the last great exponent of that tradition, and we all know how thin, how lacking in charm, the copies of Keats have become.

On the neck of the young man sparkles no gem so gracious as enterprise. Youth condemns; maturity condones.

Poetry is the most concentrated form of literature; it is the most emotionalized and powerful way in which thought can be presented.

Polyphonic prose is a kind of free verse, except that it is still freer. Polyphonic makes full use of cadence, rime, alliteration, assonance.

Rapture's self is three parts sorrow.

Sexual love is the most stupendous fact of the universe, and the most magical mystery our poor blind senses know.

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.

The stigma of oddness is the price a myopic world always exacts of genius.

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.

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.

Time! Joyless emblem of the greed of millions, robber of the best which earth can give.