Quote

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.

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
Gay
Tulips
Embrace
Infantry
Wall
Guarded
Stand
Sunlight
Company
Soldiers
Within
Wheels
Like
Soldier
Red
Arrayed

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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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Happiness, to some, is elation to others it is mere stagnation.
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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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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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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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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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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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Freighted with hope, Crimsoned with joy, We scatter the leaves of our opening rose.
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If what we worship fail us, still the fire burns on, and it is much to have believed.
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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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All recurring joy is pain refined.
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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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A man must be sacrificed now and again to provide for the next generation of men.
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Youth condemns maturity condones
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Moon! Moon! I am prone before you. Pity me,and drench me in loneliness.
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You are ice and fire the touch of you burns my hands like snow.
Amy Lowell
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Time! Joyless emblem of the greed of millions, robber of the best which earth can give.
Amy Lowell
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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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How loud clocks can tick when a room is empty, and one is alone!
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