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

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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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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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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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My! ain't men blinder'n moles?
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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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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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Even pain pricks to livelier living.
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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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When trying to explain anything, I usually find that the Bible, that great collection of magnificent and varied poetry, has said it before in the best possible way.
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Not a softness anywhere about me, Only whalebone and brocade.
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Underneath my stiffened gown Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin
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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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Hate is ravening vulture beaks descending on a place of skulls.
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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 shall go Up and down In my gown. Gorgeously arrayed, Boned and stayed.
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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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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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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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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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Brighter than fireflies upon the Uji River are your words in the dark, Beloved.
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