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

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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.
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Time! Joyless emblem of the greed of millions, robber of the best which earth can give.
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Brighter than fireflies upon the Uji River are your words in the dark, Beloved.
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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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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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Not a softness anywhere about me, Only whalebone and brocade.
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Life is a stream On which we strew Petal by petal the flower of our heart.
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The stigma of oddness is the price a myopic world always exacts of genius.
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May is much sunshine through small leaves.
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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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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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To-night when the full-bellied moon swallows the stars. Grant that I know.
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I shall go Up and down In my gown. Gorgeously arrayed, Boned and stayed.
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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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When I go away from you The world beats dead Like a slackened drum.
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Freighted with hope, Crimsoned with joy, We scatter the leaves of our opening rose.
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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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Poetry is the most concentrated form of literature it is the most emotionalized and powerful way in which thought can be presented.
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If what we worship fail us, still the fire burns on, and it is much to have believed.
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My! ain't men blinder'n moles?
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