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How hard, how desperately hard, is the way of the experimenter in art!

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
Experimenter
Desperately
Art
Hard
Way

More quotes by Amy Lowell

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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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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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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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My! ain't men blinder'n moles?
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A man must be sacrificed now and again to provide for the next generation of men.
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Time! Joyless emblem of the greed of millions, robber of the best which earth can give.
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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.
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Hate is ravening vulture beaks descending on a place of skulls.
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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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When I go away from you The world beats dead Like a slackened drum.
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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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If what we worship fail us, still the fire burns on, and it is much to have believed.
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You are ice and fire the touch of you burns my hands like snow.
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Moon! Moon! I am prone before you. Pity me,and drench me in loneliness.
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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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Without poetry the soul and heart of man starves and dies.
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Even pain pricks to livelier living.
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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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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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