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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
More quotes by Amy Lowell
Even pain pricks to livelier living.
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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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The stigma of oddness is the price a myopic world always exacts of genius.
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Without poetry the soul and heart of man starves and dies.
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Love is a game-yes? I think it is a drowning.
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Hate is ravening vulture beaks descending on a place of skulls.
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I shall go Up and down In my gown. Gorgeously arrayed, Boned and stayed.
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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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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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When I go away from you The world beats dead Like a slackened drum.
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Time! Joyless emblem of the greed of millions, robber of the best which earth can give.
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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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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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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 loud clocks can tick when a room is empty, and one is alone!
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How hard, how desperately hard, is the way of the experimenter in art!
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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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On the neck of the young man sparkles no gem so gracious as enterprise. Youth condemns maturity condones.
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To-night when the full-bellied moon swallows the stars. Grant that I know.
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You are ice and fire the touch of you burns my hands like snow.
Amy Lowell