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Without poetry the soul and heart of man starves and dies.

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
Men
Starves
Poetry
Dies
Soul
Without
Heart

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Rapture's self is three parts sorrow.
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When I go away from you The world beats dead Like a slackened drum.
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A man must be sacrificed now and again to provide for the next generation of men.
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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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Youth condemns maturity condones
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Witches are moon-birds, Witches are the women of the false, beautiful moon.
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How hard, how desperately hard, is the way of the experimenter in art!
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How much more beautiful is the moon, Slanting down the gauffered branches of a plum-tree The moon Wavering across a bed of tulips The moon, Still, Upon your face. You shine, Beloved, You and the moon. But which is the reflection?
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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.
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Time! Joyless emblem of the greed of millions, robber of the best which earth can give.
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Underneath my stiffened gown Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin
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Not a softness anywhere about me, Only whalebone and brocade.
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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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Freighted with hope, Crimsoned with joy, We scatter the leaves of our opening rose.
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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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All books are either dreams or swords, you can cut, or you can drug, with words.
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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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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.
Amy Lowell
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Everything mortal has moments immortal
Amy Lowell
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Happiness, to some, elation Is, to others, mere stagnation.
Amy Lowell