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Can you see through the night, woman, that you stare so upon it? Man, what sparks do your eyes follow in the smouldering darkness?

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
Eye
Smouldering
Woman
Stare
Inspirational
Sparks
Night
Staring
Men
Follow
Life
Darkness
Eyes
Upon

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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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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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Underneath my stiffened gown Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin
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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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Life is a stream On which we strew Petal by petal the flower of our heart.
Amy Lowell
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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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You are ice and fire the touch of you burns my hands like snow.
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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.
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Everything mortal has moments immortal
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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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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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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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Polyphonic prose is a kind of free verse, except that it is still freer. Polyphonic makes full use of cadence, rime, alliteration, assonance.
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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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Brighter than fireflies upon the Uji River are your words in the dark, Beloved.
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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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How hard, how desperately hard, is the way of the experimenter in art!
Amy Lowell
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I should like to bring a case to trial: Prosperity versus Beauty, Cash registers teetering in a balance against the comfort of the soul.
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Moon! Moon! I am prone before you. Pity me,and drench me in loneliness.
Amy Lowell