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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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Brighter than fireflies upon the Uji River are your words in the dark, Beloved.
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Polyphonic prose is a kind of free verse, except that it is still freer. Polyphonic makes full use of cadence, rime, alliteration, assonance.
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Happiness, to some, elation Is, to others, mere stagnation.
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Even pain pricks to livelier living.
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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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Love is a game-yes? I think it is a drowning.
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The stigma of oddness is the price a myopic world always exacts of genius.
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Poets are always the advance guard of literature the advance guard of life. It is for this reason that their recognition comes so slowly.
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May is much sunshine through small leaves.
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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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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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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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In my stiff, brocaded gown. With my powdered hair and jeweled fan, I too am a rare Pattern.
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So with the stretch of the white road before me, Shining snow crystals rainbowed by the sun, Fields that are white, stained with long, cool, blue shadows, Strong with the strength of my horse as we run. Joy in the touch of the wind and the sunlight! Joy! With the vigorous earth I am one.
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A man must be sacrificed now and again to provide for the next generation of men.
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I know that a creed is the shell of a lie.
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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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My! ain't men blinder'n moles?
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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.
Amy Lowell