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Oh! To be a flower Nodding in the sun, Bending, then upspringing As the breezes run.

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
Running
Breezes
Nodding
Bending
Breeze
Sun
Flower

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My! ain't men blinder'n moles?
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Even pain pricks to livelier living.
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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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How hard, how desperately hard, is the way of the experimenter in art!
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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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Not a softness anywhere about me, Only whalebone and brocade.
Amy Lowell
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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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A man must be sacrificed now and again to provide for the next generation of men.
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Everything mortal has moments immortal
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Witches are moon-birds, Witches are the women of the false, beautiful moon.
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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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Underneath my stiffened gown Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin
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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.
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Brighter than fireflies upon the Uji River are your words in the dark, Beloved.
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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.
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Polyphonic prose is a kind of free verse, except that it is still freer. Polyphonic makes full use of cadence, rime, alliteration, assonance.
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You are ice and fire the touch of you burns my hands like snow.
Amy Lowell
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To-night when the full-bellied moon swallows the stars. Grant that I know.
Amy Lowell
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Happiness, to some, elation Is, to others, mere stagnation.
Amy Lowell
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If what we worship fail us, still the fire burns on, and it is much to have believed.
Amy Lowell