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

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Witches are moon-birds, Witches are the women of the false, beautiful moon.
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Happiness, to some, is elation to others it is mere stagnation.
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Everything mortal has moments immortal
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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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Happiness, to some, elation Is, to others, mere stagnation.
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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 should like to bring a case to trial: Prosperity versus Beauty, Cash registers teetering in a balance against the comfort of the soul.
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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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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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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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May is much sunshine through small leaves.
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Love is a game-yes? I think it is a drowning.
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Poetry, far more than fiction, reveals the soul of humanity.
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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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How loud clocks can tick when a room is empty, and one is alone!
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Life is a stream On which we strew Petal by petal the flower of our heart.
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You are ice and fire the touch of you burns my hands like snow.
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Poetry is the most concentrated form of literature it is the most emotionalized and powerful way in which thought can be presented.
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Youth condemns maturity condones
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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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