Quote

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

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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
Behinds
Glitter
Life
Broken
Garments
Like
Behind
Blowing
Decorations
People
Wind
Rapidly
Weeps
Boys
Winds
Shreds
War
Crowds
Flung
Silly
Breach
Earth
Driving
Decoration
Men

More quotes by Amy Lowell

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To-night when the full-bellied moon swallows the stars. Grant that I know.
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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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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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Fifteen millions of soldiers with popguns and horses All bent upon killing, because their of courses Are not quite the same.
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Moon! Moon! I am prone before you. Pity me,and drench me in loneliness.
Amy Lowell
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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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Hate is ravening vulture beaks descending on a place of skulls.
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How much more beautiful is the moon, Slanting down the gauffered branches of a plum-tree The moon Wavering across a bed of tulips The moon, Still, Upon your face. You shine, Beloved, You and the moon. But which is the reflection?
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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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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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Rapture's self is three parts sorrow.
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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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If what we worship fail us, still the fire burns on, and it is much to have believed.
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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, elation Is, to others, mere stagnation.
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You are ice and fire the touch of you burns my hands like snow.
Amy Lowell
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Not a softness anywhere about me, Only whalebone and brocade.
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May is much sunshine through small leaves.
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Everything mortal has moments immortal
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