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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.

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
Killing
Horse
Millions
Quite
Horses
Courses
Bent
Upon
Soldiers
War
Fifteen
Soldier

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Time! Joyless emblem of the greed of millions, robber of the best which earth can give.
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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.
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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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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.
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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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A man must be sacrificed now and again to provide for the next generation of men.
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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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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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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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Oh! To be a flower Nodding in the sun, Bending, then upspringing As the breezes run.
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Love is a game-yes? I think it is a drowning.
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To-night when the full-bellied moon swallows the stars. Grant that I know.
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I know that a creed is the shell of a lie.
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Hate is ravening vulture beaks descending on a place of skulls.
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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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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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Youth condemns maturity condones
Amy Lowell
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Don’t ask a writer what he’s working on. It’s like asking someone with cancer on the progress of his disease.
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Witches are moon-birds, Witches are the women of the false, beautiful moon.
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All recurring joy is pain refined.
Amy Lowell