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Freighted with hope, Crimsoned with joy, We scatter the leaves of our opening rose.

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
Joy
Hope
Freighted
Scatter
Leaves
Opening
Rose

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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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My! ain't men blinder'n moles?
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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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I shall go Up and down In my gown. Gorgeously arrayed, Boned and stayed.
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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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Without poetry the soul and heart of man starves and dies.
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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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Poetry, far more than fiction, reveals the soul of humanity.
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The stigma of oddness is the price a myopic world always exacts of genius.
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Underneath my stiffened gown Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin
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How loud clocks can tick when a room is empty, and one is alone!
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A man must be sacrificed now and again to provide for the next generation of men.
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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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I know that a creed is the shell of a lie.
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Moon! Moon! I am prone before you. Pity me,and drench me in loneliness.
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When I go away from you The world beats dead Like a slackened drum.
Amy Lowell
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All recurring joy is pain refined.
Amy Lowell
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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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To-night when the full-bellied moon swallows the stars. Grant that I know.
Amy Lowell
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You are ice and fire the touch of you burns my hands like snow.
Amy Lowell