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Time! Joyless emblem of the greed of millions, robber of the best which earth can give.

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
Time
Robbers
Greed
Atheism
Millions
Earth
Joyless
Give
Emblem
Best
Robber
Giving
Emblems

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In my stiff, brocaded gown. With my powdered hair and jeweled fan, I too am a rare Pattern.
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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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May is much sunshine through small leaves.
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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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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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Hate is ravening vulture beaks descending on a place of skulls.
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I shall go Up and down In my gown. Gorgeously arrayed, Boned and stayed.
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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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Underneath my stiffened gown Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin
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Brighter than fireflies upon the Uji River are your words in the dark, Beloved.
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Witches are moon-birds, Witches are the women of the false, beautiful moon.
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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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Happiness, to some, elation Is, to others, mere stagnation.
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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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Happiness, to some, is elation to others it is mere stagnation.
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Art is like politics. Any theory carried too far ends in sterility, and freshness is only gained by following some other line.
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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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All books are either dreams or swords, you can cut, or you can drug, with words.
Amy Lowell
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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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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