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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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Not a softness anywhere about me, Only whalebone and brocade.
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You are ice and fire the touch of you burns my hands like snow.
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How hard, how desperately hard, is the way of the experimenter in art!
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I know that a creed is the shell of a lie.
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To-night when the full-bellied moon swallows the stars. Grant that I know.
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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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Underneath my stiffened gown Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin, A basin in the midst of hedges grown So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding, But she guesses he is near, And the sliding of the water Seems the stroking of a dear Hand upon her.
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My heart is tuned to sorrow, and the strings Vibrate most readily to minor chords, Searching and sad my mind is stuffed with words Which voice the passion and the ache of things: Illusions beating with their baffled wings Against the walls of circumstance.
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Everything mortal has moments immortal
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Even pain pricks to livelier living.
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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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Youth condemns maturity condones
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Happiness, to some, elation Is, to others, mere stagnation.
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Underneath my stiffened gown Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin
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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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All recurring joy is pain refined.
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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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Life is a stream On which we strew Petal by petal the flower of our heart.
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When I go away from you The world beats dead Like a slackened drum.
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