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Oh! To be a butterfly Still, upon a flower, Winking with its painted wings, Happy in the hour.

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
Upon
Winking
Stills
Painted
Still
Butterfly
Wings
Hour
Flower
Hours
Happy

More quotes by Amy Lowell

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Youth condemns maturity condones
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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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Freighted with hope, Crimsoned with joy, We scatter the leaves of our opening rose.
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All books are either dreams or swords, you can cut, or you can drug, with words.
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I shall go Up and down In my gown. Gorgeously arrayed, Boned and stayed.
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Sexual love is the most stupendous fact of the universe, and the most magical mystery our poor blind senses know.
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How loud clocks can tick when a room is empty, and one is alone!
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Brighter than fireflies upon the Uji River are your words in the dark, Beloved.
Amy Lowell
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Love is a game-yes? I think it is a drowning.
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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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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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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.
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The stigma of oddness is the price a myopic world always exacts of genius.
Amy Lowell
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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.
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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Even pain pricks to livelier living.
Amy Lowell
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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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Can you see through the night, woman, that you stare so upon it? Man, what sparks do your eyes follow in the smouldering darkness?
Amy Lowell
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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.
Amy Lowell
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My! ain't men blinder'n moles?
Amy Lowell