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Don’t ask a writer what he’s working on. It’s like asking someone with cancer on the progress of his disease.
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
Asks
Working
Someone
Writing
Cancer
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Asking
Disease
Writer
Progress
More quotes by Amy Lowell
Not a softness anywhere about me, Only whalebone and brocade.
Amy Lowell
How hard, how desperately hard, is the way of the experimenter in art!
Amy Lowell
Freighted with hope, Crimsoned with joy, We scatter the leaves of our opening rose.
Amy Lowell
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.
Amy Lowell
Without poetry the soul and heart of man starves and dies.
Amy Lowell
Youth condemns maturity condones
Amy Lowell
Everything mortal has moments immortal
Amy Lowell
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
Time! Joyless emblem of the greed of millions, robber of the best which earth can give.
Amy Lowell
How loud clocks can tick when a room is empty, and one is alone!
Amy Lowell
Lilacs, False Blue, White, Purple, Colour of lilac, Your great puffs of flowers Are everywhere in this my New England ... Lilacs in dooryards Holding quiet conversation with an early moon Lilacs watching a deserted house ... Lilacs, wind-beaten, staggering under a lopsided shock of bloom, You are everywhere.
Amy Lowell
Fifteen millions of soldiers with popguns and horses All bent upon killing, because their of courses Are not quite the same.
Amy Lowell
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.
Amy Lowell
Poetry is the most concentrated form of literature it is the most emotionalized and powerful way in which thought can be presented.
Amy Lowell
If what we worship fail us, still the fire burns on, and it is much to have believed.
Amy Lowell
Guarded within the old red wall's embrace, Marshalled like soldiers in gay company, The tulips stand arrayed. Here infantry Wheels out into the sunlight.
Amy Lowell
Oh! To be a flower Nodding in the sun, Bending, then upspringing As the breezes run.
Amy Lowell
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
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
The stigma of oddness is the price a myopic world always exacts of genius.
Amy Lowell