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You are ice and fire the touch of you burns my hands like snow.

Amy Lowell

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Amy Lowell
Age: 51 †
Born: 1874
Born: February 9
Died: 1925
Died: May 12
Poet
Socialite
Writer
Brookline
Massachusetts
Amy Lawrence Lowell
Ice
Snow
Touch
Fire
Hands
Like
Burns

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Sexual love is the most stupendous fact of the universe, and the most magical mystery our poor blind senses know.
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My! ain't men blinder'n moles?
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Even pain pricks to livelier living.
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Art is like politics. Any theory carried too far ends in sterility, and freshness is only gained by following some other line.
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Happiness, to some, elation Is, to others, mere stagnation.
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May is much sunshine through small leaves.
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I know that a creed is the shell of a lie.
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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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I shall go Up and down In my gown. Gorgeously arrayed, Boned and stayed.
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Poetry, far more than fiction, reveals the soul of humanity.
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Brighter than fireflies upon the Uji River are your words in the dark, Beloved.
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Oh! To be a flower Nodding in the sun, Bending, then upspringing As the breezes run.
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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.
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Moon! Moon! I am prone before you. Pity me,and drench me in loneliness.
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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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When you came, you were like red wine and honey, and the taste of you burnt my mouth with its sweetness.
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When I go away from you The world beats dead Like a slackened drum.
Amy Lowell
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All recurring joy is pain refined.
Amy Lowell
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On the neck of the young man sparkles no gem so gracious as enterprise. Youth condemns maturity condones.
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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.
Amy Lowell