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Happiness: We rarely feel it. I would buy it, beg it, steal it, Pay in coins of dripping blood For this one transcendent good.

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
Pay
Blood
Happiness
Dripping
Feel
Transcendent
Feels
Coins
Good
Steal
Would
Stealing
Rarely

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Everything mortal has moments immortal
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Poetry, far more than fiction, reveals the soul of humanity.
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Not a softness anywhere about me, Only whalebone and brocade.
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A man must be sacrificed now and again to provide for the next generation of men.
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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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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.
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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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When I go away from you The world beats dead Like a slackened drum.
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So with the stretch of the white road before me, Shining snow crystals rainbowed by the sun, Fields that are white, stained with long, cool, blue shadows, Strong with the strength of my horse as we run. Joy in the touch of the wind and the sunlight! Joy! With the vigorous earth I am one.
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All books are either dreams or swords, you can cut, or you can drug, with words.
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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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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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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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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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Rapture's self is three parts sorrow.
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How loud clocks can tick when a room is empty, and one is alone!
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You are ice and fire the touch of you burns my hands like snow.
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All recurring joy is pain refined.
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I shall go Up and down In my gown. Gorgeously arrayed, Boned and stayed.
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Happiness, to some, is elation to others it is mere stagnation.
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