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When I go away from you The world beats dead Like a slackened drum.

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
Beats
Missing
Dead
Away
Like
World
Drum

More quotes by Amy Lowell

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Not a softness anywhere about me, Only whalebone and brocade.
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In my stiff, brocaded gown. With my powdered hair and jeweled fan, I too am a rare Pattern.
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Don’t ask a writer what he’s working on. It’s like asking someone with cancer on the progress of his disease.
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Even pain pricks to livelier living.
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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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You are ice and fire the touch of you burns my hands like snow.
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Oh! To be a butterfly Still, upon a flower, Winking with its painted wings, Happy in the hour.
Amy Lowell
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How hard, how desperately hard, is the way of the experimenter in art!
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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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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.
Amy Lowell
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When trying to explain anything, I usually find that the Bible, that great collection of magnificent and varied poetry, has said it before in the best possible way.
Amy Lowell
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How loud clocks can tick when a room is empty, and one is alone!
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A man must be sacrificed now and again to provide for the next generation of men.
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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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On the neck of the young man sparkles no gem so gracious as enterprise. Youth condemns maturity condones.
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Brighter than fireflies upon the Uji River are your words in the dark, Beloved.
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May is much sunshine through small leaves.
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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.
Amy Lowell
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My! ain't men blinder'n moles?
Amy Lowell
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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.
Amy Lowell