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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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Oh! To be a flower Nodding in the sun, Bending, then upspringing As the breezes run.
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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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All recurring joy is pain refined.
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You are ice and fire the touch of you burns my hands like snow.
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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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Happiness, to some, is elation to others it is mere stagnation.
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Rapture's self is three parts sorrow.
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Time! Joyless emblem of the greed of millions, robber of the best which earth can give.
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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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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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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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Life is a stream On which we strew Petal by petal the flower of our heart.
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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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All books are either dreams or swords, you can cut, or you can drug, with words.
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Poetry, far more than fiction, reveals the soul of humanity.
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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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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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To-night when the full-bellied moon swallows the stars. Grant that I know.
Amy Lowell
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My words are little jars For you to take and put upon a shelf. Their shapes are quaint and beautiful, And they have many pleasant colours and lustres To recommend them. Also the scent from them fills the room With sweetness of flowers and crushed grasses.
Amy Lowell
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When you came, you were like red wine and honey, and the taste of you burnt my mouth with its sweetness.
Amy Lowell