Quote

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

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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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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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My heart is tuned to sorrow, and the strings Vibrate most readily to minor chords, Searching and sad my mind is stuffed with words Which voice the passion and the ache of things: Illusions beating with their baffled wings Against the walls of circumstance.
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You are ice and fire the touch of you burns my hands like snow.
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Happiness, to some, elation Is, to others, mere stagnation.
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May is much sunshine through small leaves.
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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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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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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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Without poetry the soul and heart of man starves and dies.
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Rapture's self is three parts sorrow.
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Life is a stream On which we strew Petal by petal the flower of our heart.
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Freighted with hope, Crimsoned with joy, We scatter the leaves of our opening rose.
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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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I know that a creed is the shell of a lie.
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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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Not a softness anywhere about me, Only whalebone and brocade.
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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 butterfly Still, upon a flower, Winking with its painted wings, Happy in the hour.
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I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against the want of you of squeezing it into little inkdrops, And posting it.
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