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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.

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
Mouth
Mouths
Wine
Taste
Burnt
Came
Sweetness
Love
Honey
Like
Girlfriend
Red

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My! ain't men blinder'n moles?
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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.
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A man must be sacrificed now and again to provide for the next generation of men.
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All recurring joy is pain refined.
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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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Oh! To be a butterfly Still, upon a flower, Winking with its painted wings, Happy in the hour.
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I know that a creed is the shell of a lie.
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Happiness, to some, is elation to others it is mere stagnation.
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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.
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Everything mortal has moments immortal
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Underneath my stiffened gown Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin, A basin in the midst of hedges grown So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding, But she guesses he is near, And the sliding of the water Seems the stroking of a dear Hand upon her.
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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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Happiness, to some, elation Is, to others, mere stagnation.
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Happiness: We rarely feel it. I would buy it, beg it, steal it, Pay in coins of dripping blood For this one transcendent good.
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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Can you see through the night, woman, that you stare so upon it? Man, what sparks do your eyes follow in the smouldering darkness?
Amy Lowell
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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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Rapture's self is three parts sorrow.
Amy Lowell
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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.
Amy Lowell