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

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Even pain pricks to livelier living.
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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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Poetry, far more than fiction, reveals the soul of humanity.
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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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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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My heart is tuned to sorrow, and the strings Vibrate most readily to minor chords, Searching and sad my mind is stuffed with words Which voice the passion and the ache of things: Illusions beating with their baffled wings Against the walls of circumstance.
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Poets are always the advance guard of literature the advance guard of life. It is for this reason that their recognition comes so slowly.
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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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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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All books are either dreams or swords, you can cut, or you can drug, with words.
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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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On the neck of the young man sparkles no gem so gracious as enterprise. Youth condemns maturity condones.
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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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Happiness: We rarely feel it. I would buy it, beg it, steal it, Pay in coins of dripping blood For this one transcendent good.
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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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May is much sunshine through small leaves.
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Love is a game-yes? I think it is a drowning.
Amy Lowell
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If what we worship fail us, still the fire burns on, and it is much to have believed.
Amy Lowell
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I shall go Up and down In my gown. Gorgeously arrayed, Boned and stayed.
Amy Lowell