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Rapture's self is three parts sorrow.

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
Rapture
Parts
Sorrow
Experience
Three
Self

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May is much sunshine through small leaves.
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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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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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Not a softness anywhere about me, Only whalebone and brocade.
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Poetry, far more than fiction, reveals the soul of humanity.
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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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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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All recurring joy is pain refined.
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I know that a creed is the shell of a lie.
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A man must be sacrificed now and again to provide for the next generation of men.
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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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Time! Joyless emblem of the greed of millions, robber of the best which earth can give.
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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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Sexual love is the most stupendous fact of the universe, and the most magical mystery our poor blind senses know.
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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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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.
Amy Lowell
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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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Art is like politics. Any theory carried too far ends in sterility, and freshness is only gained by following some other line.
Amy Lowell
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Underneath my stiffened gown Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin
Amy Lowell
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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