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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
Room
Rooms
Alone
Clocks
Tick
Emptiness
Clock
Loud
Empty

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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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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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I shall go Up and down In my gown. Gorgeously arrayed, Boned and stayed.
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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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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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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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This is war: Boys flung into a breach Like shoveled earth And old men, Broken, Driving rapidly before crowds of people In a glitter of silly decorations. Behind the boys And the old men, Life weeps, And shreds her garments To the blowing winds.
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Oh! To be a flower Nodding in the sun, Bending, then upspringing As the breezes run.
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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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Happiness, to some, is elation to others it is mere stagnation.
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Without poetry the soul and heart of man starves and dies.
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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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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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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.
Amy Lowell
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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.
Amy Lowell
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All recurring joy is pain refined.
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.
Amy Lowell
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Oh! To be a butterfly Still, upon a flower, Winking with its painted wings, Happy in the hour.
Amy Lowell