Quote

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.

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
Sweet
Quarters
Lilac
Black
Stock
Dazed
Night
Cat
Contented
Stills
Smell
Smells
Still
Rose
Moonlight
Garden
Quarter
Moon
Roses
Among
Perfume
Scented

More quotes by Amy Lowell

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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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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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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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All books are either dreams or swords, you can cut, or you can drug, with words.
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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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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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Witches are moon-birds, Witches are the women of the false, beautiful moon.
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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.
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Happiness, to some, is elation to others it is mere stagnation.
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To-night when the full-bellied moon swallows the stars. Grant that I know.
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My! ain't men blinder'n moles?
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I know that a creed is the shell of a lie.
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Even pain pricks to livelier living.
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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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I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against the want of you of squeezing it into little inkdrops, And posting it.
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Poets are always the advance guard of literature the advance guard of life. It is for this reason that their recognition comes so slowly.
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Without poetry the soul and heart of man starves and dies.
Amy Lowell
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Brighter than fireflies upon the Uji River are your words in the dark, Beloved.
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You are ice and fire the touch of you burns my hands like snow.
Amy Lowell
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I should like to bring a case to trial: Prosperity versus Beauty, Cash registers teetering in a balance against the comfort of the soul.
Amy Lowell