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To-night when the full-bellied moon swallows the stars. Grant that I know.

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
Grant
Grants
Moon
Full
Stars
Night
Life
Bellied
Swallows

More quotes by Amy Lowell

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I know that a creed is the shell of a lie.
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In my stiff, brocaded gown. With my powdered hair and jeweled fan, I too am a rare Pattern.
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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?
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Rapture's self is three parts sorrow.
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Freighted with hope, Crimsoned with joy, We scatter the leaves of our opening rose.
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Poetry is the most concentrated form of literature it is the most emotionalized and powerful way in which thought can be presented.
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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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Time! Joyless emblem of the greed of millions, robber of the best which earth can give.
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Even pain pricks to livelier living.
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I shall go Up and down In my gown. Gorgeously arrayed, Boned and stayed.
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Everything mortal has moments immortal
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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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Life is a stream On which we strew Petal by petal the flower of our heart.
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Happiness, to some, is elation to others it is mere stagnation.
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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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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.
Amy Lowell
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You are ice and fire the touch of you burns my hands like snow.
Amy Lowell
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Hate is ravening vulture beaks descending on a place of skulls.
Amy Lowell
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How loud clocks can tick when a room is empty, and one is alone!
Amy Lowell
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All recurring joy is pain refined.
Amy Lowell