Quote

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?

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
Much
Tree
Shine
Face
Branches
Faces
Beloved
Upon
Shining
Slanting
Night
Reflection
Tulips
Beautiful
Bed
Plum
Stills
Across
Plums
Still
Moon
Wavering

More quotes by Amy Lowell

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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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Moon! Moon! I am prone before you. Pity me,and drench me in loneliness.
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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 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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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.
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Oh! To be a flower Nodding in the sun, Bending, then upspringing As the breezes run.
Amy Lowell
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To-night when the full-bellied moon swallows the stars. Grant that I know.
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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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I must be mad, or very tired, When the curve of a blue bay beyond a railroad track Is shrill and sweet to me like the sudden springing of a tune, And the sight of a white church above thin trees in a city square Amazes my eyes as though it were the Parthenon.
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All recurring joy is pain refined.
Amy Lowell
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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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Hate is ravening vulture beaks descending on a place of skulls.
Amy Lowell
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The stigma of oddness is the price a myopic world always exacts of genius.
Amy Lowell
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Love is a game-yes? I think it is a drowning.
Amy Lowell
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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.
Amy Lowell
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Happiness, to some, is elation to others it is mere stagnation.
Amy Lowell
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Rapture's self is three parts sorrow.
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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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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All books are either dreams or swords, you can cut, or you can drug, with words.
Amy Lowell