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How loud clocks can tick when a room is empty, and one is alone!

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
Clock
Loud
Empty
Room
Rooms
Alone
Clocks
Tick
Emptiness

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A man must be sacrificed now and again to provide for the next generation of men.
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Everything mortal has moments immortal
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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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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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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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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.
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Happiness, to some, elation Is, to others, mere stagnation.
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Poets are always the advance guard of literature the advance guard of life. It is for this reason that their recognition comes so slowly.
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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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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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When I go away from you The world beats dead Like a slackened drum.
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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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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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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 books are either dreams or swords, you can cut, or you can drug, with words.
Amy Lowell
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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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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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Without poetry the soul and heart of man starves and dies.
Amy Lowell
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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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