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

More quotes by Amy Lowell

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Brighter than fireflies upon the Uji River are your words in the dark, Beloved.
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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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To-night when the full-bellied moon swallows the stars. Grant that I know.
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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.
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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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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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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
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My! ain't men blinder'n moles?
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You are ice and fire the touch of you burns my hands like snow.
Amy Lowell
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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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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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Everything mortal has moments immortal
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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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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.
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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.
Amy Lowell
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Life is a stream On which we strew Petal by petal the flower of our heart.
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.
Amy Lowell
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Hate is ravening vulture beaks descending on a place of skulls.
Amy Lowell
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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.
Amy Lowell
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Oh! To be a flower Nodding in the sun, Bending, then upspringing As the breezes run.
Amy Lowell