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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
Prone
Loneliness
Pity
Moon
Drench

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Happiness, to some, elation Is, to others, mere stagnation.
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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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Brighter than fireflies upon the Uji River are your words in the dark, Beloved.
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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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Oh! To be a butterfly Still, upon a flower, Winking with its painted wings, Happy in the hour.
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May is much sunshine through small leaves.
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Everything mortal has moments immortal
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I know that a creed is the shell of a lie.
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A man must be sacrificed now and again to provide for the next generation of men.
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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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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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Poets are always the advance guard of literature the advance guard of life. It is for this reason that their recognition comes so slowly.
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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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Not a softness anywhere about me, Only whalebone and brocade.
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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
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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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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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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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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.
Amy Lowell