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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.

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
Becomes
Precedence
Art
Evolved
Form
Tends
Become
Tendency
Take
Artificial
Great
Tendencies
Always
Forms
Emotion
Rhythmic

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Underneath my stiffened gown Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin, A basin in the midst of hedges grown So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding, But she guesses he is near, And the sliding of the water Seems the stroking of a dear Hand upon her.
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Happiness, to some, is elation to others it is mere stagnation.
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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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Without poetry the soul and heart of man starves and dies.
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Even pain pricks to livelier living.
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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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To understand Vers libre, one must abandon all desire to find in it the even rhythm of metrical feet. One must allow the lines to flow as they will when read aloud by an intelligent reader.
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How hard, how desperately hard, is the way of the experimenter in art!
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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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Moon! Moon! I am prone before you. Pity me,and drench me in loneliness.
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Time! Joyless emblem of the greed of millions, robber of the best which earth can give.
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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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On the neck of the young man sparkles no gem so gracious as enterprise. Youth condemns maturity condones.
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In my stiff, brocaded gown. With my powdered hair and jeweled fan, I too am a rare Pattern.
Amy Lowell
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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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When I go away from you The world beats dead Like a slackened drum.
Amy Lowell
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I never deny poems when they come whatever I am doing, whatever I am writing, I lay it aside and attend to the arriving poem.
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
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Life is a stream On which we strew Petal by petal the flower of our heart.
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