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Youth condemns maturity condones

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
Condones
Condemns
Maturity
Youth

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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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My words are little jars For you to take and put upon a shelf. Their shapes are quaint and beautiful, And they have many pleasant colours and lustres To recommend them. Also the scent from them fills the room With sweetness of flowers and crushed grasses.
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Hate is ravening vulture beaks descending on a place of skulls.
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Not a softness anywhere about me, Only whalebone and brocade.
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Art is the desire of a man to express himself, to record the reactions of his personality to the world he lives in.
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When I go away from you The world beats dead Like a slackened drum.
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Rapture's self is three parts sorrow.
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May is much sunshine through small leaves.
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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?
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Life is a stream On which we strew Petal by petal the flower of our heart.
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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.
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Brighter than fireflies upon the Uji River are your words in the dark, Beloved.
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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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How hard, how desperately hard, is the way of the experimenter in art!
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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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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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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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Oh! To be a butterfly Still, upon a flower, Winking with its painted wings, Happy in the hour.
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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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