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Happiness, to some, is elation to others it is mere stagnation.

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
Stagnation
Mere
Happiness
Others
Elation

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When I go away from you The world beats dead Like a slackened drum.
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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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Oh! To be a butterfly Still, upon a flower, Winking with its painted wings, Happy in the hour.
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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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Not a softness anywhere about me, Only whalebone and brocade.
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All recurring joy is pain refined.
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Love is a game-yes? I think it is a drowning.
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Moon! Moon! I am prone before you. Pity me,and drench me in loneliness.
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Happiness, to some, elation Is, to others, mere stagnation.
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Everything mortal has moments immortal
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All books are either dreams or swords, you can cut, or you can drug, with words.
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The stigma of oddness is the price a myopic world always exacts of genius.
Amy Lowell
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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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Don’t ask a writer what he’s working on. It’s like asking someone with cancer on the progress of his disease.
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Lilacs, False Blue, White, Purple, Colour of lilac, Your great puffs of flowers Are everywhere in this my New England ... Lilacs in dooryards Holding quiet conversation with an early moon Lilacs watching a deserted house ... Lilacs, wind-beaten, staggering under a lopsided shock of bloom, You are everywhere.
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Oh! To be a flower Nodding in the sun, Bending, then upspringing As the breezes run.
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On the neck of the young man sparkles no gem so gracious as enterprise. Youth condemns maturity condones.
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Even pain pricks to livelier living.
Amy Lowell
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Without poetry the soul and heart of man starves and dies.
Amy Lowell
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Freighted with hope, Crimsoned with joy, We scatter the leaves of our opening rose.
Amy Lowell