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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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Oh! To be a butterfly Still, upon a flower, Winking with its painted wings, Happy in the hour.
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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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A man must be sacrificed now and again to provide for the next generation of men.
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Underneath my stiffened gown Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin
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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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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.
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Happiness, to some, is elation to others it is mere stagnation.
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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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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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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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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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Even pain pricks to livelier living.
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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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To-night when the full-bellied moon swallows the stars. Grant that I know.
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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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When trying to explain anything, I usually find that the Bible, that great collection of magnificent and varied poetry, has said it before in the best possible way.
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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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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.
Amy Lowell
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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, elation Is, to others, mere stagnation.
Amy Lowell