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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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Not a softness anywhere about me, Only whalebone and brocade.
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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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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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To-night when the full-bellied moon swallows the stars. Grant that I know.
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Everything mortal has moments immortal
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Brighter than fireflies upon the Uji River are your words in the dark, Beloved.
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Life is a stream On which we strew Petal by petal the flower of our heart.
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Happiness, to some, is elation to others it is mere stagnation.
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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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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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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 shall go Up and down In my gown. Gorgeously arrayed, Boned and stayed.
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The stigma of oddness is the price a myopic world always exacts of genius.
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You are ice and fire the touch of you burns my hands like snow.
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Oh! To be a flower Nodding in the sun, Bending, then upspringing As the breezes run.
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So with the stretch of the white road before me, Shining snow crystals rainbowed by the sun, Fields that are white, stained with long, cool, blue shadows, Strong with the strength of my horse as we run. Joy in the touch of the wind and the sunlight! Joy! With the vigorous earth I am one.
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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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Rapture's self is three parts sorrow.
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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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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