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

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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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Underneath my stiffened gown Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin
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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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Witches are moon-birds, Witches are the women of the false, beautiful moon.
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Everything mortal has moments immortal
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Poetry, far more than fiction, reveals the soul of humanity.
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How hard, how desperately hard, is the way of the experimenter in art!
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Happiness, to some, elation Is, to others, mere stagnation.
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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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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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My! ain't men blinder'n moles?
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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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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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Sexual love is the most stupendous fact of the universe, and the most magical mystery our poor blind senses know.
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How loud clocks can tick when a room is empty, and one is alone!
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Not a softness anywhere about me, Only whalebone and brocade.
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When I go away from you The world beats dead Like a slackened drum.
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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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I shall go Up and down In my gown. Gorgeously arrayed, Boned and stayed.
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All recurring joy is pain refined.
Amy Lowell