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Witches are moon-birds, Witches are the women of the false, beautiful moon.
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
Bird
Moon
Inspirational
Beautiful
Women
Witches
Life
Witch
Birds
False
More quotes by Amy Lowell
So with the stretch of the white road before me, Shining snow crystals rainbowed by the sun, Fields that are white, stained with long, cool, blue shadows, Strong with the strength of my horse as we run. Joy in the touch of the wind and the sunlight! Joy! With the vigorous earth I am one.
Amy Lowell
Oh! To be a butterfly Still, upon a flower, Winking with its painted wings, Happy in the hour.
Amy Lowell
Oh! To be a flower Nodding in the sun, Bending, then upspringing As the breezes run.
Amy Lowell
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.
Amy Lowell
The stigma of oddness is the price a myopic world always exacts of genius.
Amy Lowell
I shall go Up and down In my gown. Gorgeously arrayed, Boned and stayed.
Amy Lowell
Everything mortal has moments immortal
Amy Lowell
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.
Amy Lowell
Without poetry the soul and heart of man starves and dies.
Amy Lowell
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
Underneath my stiffened gown Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin
Amy Lowell
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.
Amy Lowell
Youth condemns maturity condones
Amy Lowell
Hate is ravening vulture beaks descending on a place of skulls.
Amy Lowell
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
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
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
May is much sunshine through small leaves.
Amy Lowell
All recurring joy is pain refined.
Amy Lowell
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