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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

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How loud clocks can tick when a room is empty, and one is alone!
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Without poetry the soul and heart of man starves and dies.
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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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Only those of our poets who kept solidly to the Shakespearean tradition achieved any measure of success. But Keats was the last great exponent of that tradition, and we all know how thin, how lacking in charm, the copies of Keats have become.
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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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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 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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Oh! To be a butterfly Still, upon a flower, Winking with its painted wings, Happy in the hour.
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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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Poetry, far more than fiction, reveals the soul of humanity.
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Not a softness anywhere about me, Only whalebone and brocade.
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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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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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Rapture's self is three parts sorrow.
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Freighted with hope, Crimsoned with joy, We scatter the leaves of our opening rose.
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I shall go Up and down In my gown. Gorgeously arrayed, Boned and stayed.
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Even pain pricks to livelier living.
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You are ice and fire the touch of you burns my hands like snow.
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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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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.
Amy Lowell