Quote

Now you are come! You tremble like a star Poised where, behind earth's rim, the sun has set. Your voice has sung across my heart, but numb And mute, I have no tones to answer.

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
Earth
Across
Rims
Come
Sun
Tremble
Heart
Answer
Tones
Like
Behinds
Sung
Behind
Mute
Answers
Numb
Stars
Tone
Voice
Star
Poised

More quotes by Amy Lowell

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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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All books are either dreams or swords, you can cut, or you can drug, with words.
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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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Love is a game-yes? I think it is a drowning.
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Happiness, to some, is elation to others it is mere stagnation.
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I know that a creed is the shell of a lie.
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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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Lilacs, False Blue, White, Purple, Colour of lilac, Your great puffs of flowers Are everywhere in this my New England ... Lilacs in dooryards Holding quiet conversation with an early moon Lilacs watching a deserted house ... Lilacs, wind-beaten, staggering under a lopsided shock of bloom, You are everywhere.
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I shall go Up and down In my gown. Gorgeously arrayed, Boned and stayed.
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You are ice and fire the touch of you burns my hands like snow.
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Underneath my stiffened gown Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin
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Life is a stream On which we strew Petal by petal the flower of our heart.
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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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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.
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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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I must be mad, or very tired, When the curve of a blue bay beyond a railroad track Is shrill and sweet to me like the sudden springing of a tune, And the sight of a white church above thin trees in a city square Amazes my eyes as though it were the Parthenon.
Amy Lowell
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Hate is ravening vulture beaks descending on a place of skulls.
Amy Lowell
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May is much sunshine through small leaves.
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Brighter than fireflies upon the Uji River are your words in the dark, Beloved.
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All recurring joy is pain refined.
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