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

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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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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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Love is a game-yes? I think it is a drowning.
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The stigma of oddness is the price a myopic world always exacts of genius.
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In my stiff, brocaded gown. With my powdered hair and jeweled fan, I too am a rare Pattern.
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I shall go Up and down In my gown. Gorgeously arrayed, Boned and stayed.
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Even pain pricks to livelier living.
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Underneath my stiffened gown Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin
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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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Oh! To be a butterfly Still, upon a flower, Winking with its painted wings, Happy in the hour.
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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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Guarded within the old red wall's embrace, Marshalled like soldiers in gay company, The tulips stand arrayed. Here infantry Wheels out into the sunlight.
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Youth condemns maturity condones
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All books are either dreams or swords, you can cut, or you can drug, with words.
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Brighter than fireflies upon the Uji River are your words in the dark, Beloved.
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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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Life is a stream On which we strew Petal by petal the flower of our heart.
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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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Art is the desire of a man to express himself, to record the reactions of his personality to the world he lives in.
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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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