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Moon! Moon! I am prone before you. Pity me,and drench me in loneliness.

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
Drench
Prone
Loneliness
Pity
Moon

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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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The stigma of oddness is the price a myopic world always exacts of genius.
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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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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.
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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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Life is a stream On which we strew Petal by petal the flower of our heart.
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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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Not a softness anywhere about me, Only whalebone and brocade.
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Without poetry the soul and heart of man starves and dies.
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A man must be sacrificed now and again to provide for the next generation of men.
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I shall go Up and down In my gown. Gorgeously arrayed, Boned and stayed.
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Even pain pricks to livelier living.
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I must be mad, or very tired, When the curve of a blue bay beyond a railroad track Is shrill and sweet to me like the sudden springing of a tune, And the sight of a white church above thin trees in a city square Amazes my eyes as though it were the Parthenon.
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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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Freighted with hope, Crimsoned with joy, We scatter the leaves of our opening rose.
Amy Lowell
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Everything mortal has moments immortal
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How hard, how desperately hard, is the way of the experimenter in art!
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Poetry, far more than fiction, reveals the soul of humanity.
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I know that a creed is the shell of a lie.
Amy Lowell
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On the neck of the young man sparkles no gem so gracious as enterprise. Youth condemns maturity condones.
Amy Lowell