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

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Rapture's self is three parts sorrow.
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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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Without poetry the soul and heart of man starves and dies.
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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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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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In my stiff, brocaded gown. With my powdered hair and jeweled fan, I too am a rare Pattern.
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Not a softness anywhere about me, Only whalebone and brocade.
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Poetry, far more than fiction, reveals the soul of humanity.
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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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Witches are moon-birds, Witches are the women of the false, beautiful moon.
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To-night when the full-bellied moon swallows the stars. Grant that I know.
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Art is like politics. Any theory carried too far ends in sterility, and freshness is only gained by following some other line.
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My! ain't men blinder'n moles?
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Happiness: We rarely feel it. I would buy it, beg it, steal it, Pay in coins of dripping blood For this one transcendent good.
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I shall go Up and down In my gown. Gorgeously arrayed, Boned and stayed.
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How loud clocks can tick when a room is empty, and one is alone!
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Moon! Moon! I am prone before you. Pity me,and drench me in loneliness.
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A man must be sacrificed now and again to provide for the next generation of men.
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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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