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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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On the neck of the young man sparkles no gem so gracious as enterprise. Youth condemns maturity condones.
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To understand Vers libre, one must abandon all desire to find in it the even rhythm of metrical feet. One must allow the lines to flow as they will when read aloud by an intelligent reader.
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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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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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Not a softness anywhere about me, Only whalebone and brocade.
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Moon! Moon! I am prone before you. Pity me,and drench me in loneliness.
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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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Happiness, to some, is elation to others it is mere stagnation.
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I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against the want of you of squeezing it into little inkdrops, And posting it.
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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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In my stiff, brocaded gown. With my powdered hair and jeweled fan, I too am a rare Pattern.
Amy Lowell
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Underneath my stiffened gown Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin
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Happiness, to some, elation Is, to others, mere stagnation.
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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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Brighter than fireflies upon the Uji River are your words in the dark, Beloved.
Amy Lowell
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Freighted with hope, Crimsoned with joy, We scatter the leaves of our opening rose.
Amy Lowell
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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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Without poetry the soul and heart of man starves and dies.
Amy Lowell
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When I go away from you The world beats dead Like a slackened drum.
Amy Lowell
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Rapture's self is three parts sorrow.
Amy Lowell