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

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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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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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Sexual love is the most stupendous fact of the universe, and the most magical mystery our poor blind senses know.
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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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If what we worship fail us, still the fire burns on, and it is much to have believed.
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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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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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On the neck of the young man sparkles no gem so gracious as enterprise. Youth condemns maturity condones.
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Moon! Moon! I am prone before you. Pity me,and drench me in loneliness.
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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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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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To-night when the full-bellied moon swallows the stars. Grant that I know.
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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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Youth condemns maturity condones
Amy Lowell
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When I go away from you The world beats dead Like a slackened drum.
Amy Lowell
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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
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Even pain pricks to livelier living.
Amy Lowell
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Time! Joyless emblem of the greed of millions, robber of the best which earth can give.
Amy Lowell
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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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May is much sunshine through small leaves.
Amy Lowell