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Hate is ravening vulture beaks descending on a place of skulls.

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
Beaks
Vulture
Descending
Skulls
Hate
Place
Ravening

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How hard, how desperately hard, is the way of the experimenter in art!
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Life is a stream On which we strew Petal by petal the flower of our heart.
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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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All books are either dreams or swords, you can cut, or you can drug, with words.
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Brighter than fireflies upon the Uji River are your words in the dark, Beloved.
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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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Poetry, far more than fiction, reveals the soul of humanity.
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All recurring joy is pain refined.
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Rapture's self is three parts sorrow.
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Not a softness anywhere about me, Only whalebone and brocade.
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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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Great emotion always tends to become rhythmic, and out of that tendency the forms of art have been evolved. Art becomes artificial only when the forms take precedence over the emotion.
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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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Youth condemns maturity condones
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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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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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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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Can you see through the night, woman, that you stare so upon it? Man, what sparks do your eyes follow in the smouldering darkness?
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When I go away from you The world beats dead Like a slackened drum.
Amy Lowell