Quote

If what we worship fail us, still the fire burns on, and it is much to have believed.

Amy Lowell

Change background

T
T
T

Change font

TAGS & TOPICS

Amy Lowell
Age: 51 †
Born: 1874
Born: February 9
Died: 1925
Died: May 12
Poet
Socialite
Writer
Brookline
Massachusetts
Amy Lawrence Lowell
Much
Believed
Fail
Worship
Failing
Fire
Belief
Stills
Still
Burns

More quotes by Amy Lowell

Image
The stigma of oddness is the price a myopic world always exacts of genius.
Amy Lowell
Image
Not a softness anywhere about me, Only whalebone and brocade.
Amy Lowell
Image
Witches are moon-birds, Witches are the women of the false, beautiful moon.
Amy Lowell
Image
When you came, you were like red wine and honey, and the taste of you burnt my mouth with its sweetness.
Amy Lowell
Image
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
Image
Polyphonic prose is a kind of free verse, except that it is still freer. Polyphonic makes full use of cadence, rime, alliteration, assonance.
Amy Lowell
Image
I shall go Up and down In my gown. Gorgeously arrayed, Boned and stayed.
Amy Lowell
Image
Time! Joyless emblem of the greed of millions, robber of the best which earth can give.
Amy Lowell
Image
Happiness: We rarely feel it. I would buy it, beg it, steal it, Pay in coins of dripping blood For this one transcendent good.
Amy Lowell
Image
Hate is ravening vulture beaks descending on a place of skulls.
Amy Lowell
Image
Youth condemns maturity condones
Amy Lowell
Image
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.
Amy Lowell
Image
A man must be sacrificed now and again to provide for the next generation of men.
Amy Lowell
Image
Poetry is the most concentrated form of literature it is the most emotionalized and powerful way in which thought can be presented.
Amy Lowell
Image
This is war: Boys flung into a breach Like shoveled earth And old men, Broken, Driving rapidly before crowds of people In a glitter of silly decorations. Behind the boys And the old men, Life weeps, And shreds her garments To the blowing winds.
Amy Lowell
Image
Poetry, far more than fiction, reveals the soul of humanity.
Amy Lowell
Image
When I go away from you The world beats dead Like a slackened drum.
Amy Lowell
Image
Oh! To be a butterfly Still, upon a flower, Winking with its painted wings, Happy in the hour.
Amy Lowell
Image
In my stiff, brocaded gown. With my powdered hair and jeweled fan, I too am a rare Pattern.
Amy Lowell
Image
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?
Amy Lowell