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

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If what we worship fail us, still the fire burns on, and it is much to have believed.
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All recurring joy is pain refined.
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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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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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I shall go Up and down In my gown. Gorgeously arrayed, Boned and stayed.
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Oh! To be a flower Nodding in the sun, Bending, then upspringing As the breezes run.
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Happiness: We rarely feel it. I would buy it, beg it, steal it, Pay in coins of dripping blood For this one transcendent good.
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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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Sexual love is the most stupendous fact of the universe, and the most magical mystery our poor blind senses know.
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Life is a stream On which we strew Petal by petal the flower of our heart.
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Poetry, far more than fiction, reveals the soul of humanity.
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When I go away from you The world beats dead Like a slackened drum.
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I should like to bring a case to trial: Prosperity versus Beauty, Cash registers teetering in a balance against the comfort of the soul.
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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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Everything mortal has moments immortal
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How hard, how desperately hard, is the way of the experimenter in art!
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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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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.
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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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Freighted with hope, Crimsoned with joy, We scatter the leaves of our opening rose.
Amy Lowell