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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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I shall go Up and down In my gown. Gorgeously arrayed, Boned and stayed.
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Brighter than fireflies upon the Uji River are your words in the dark, Beloved.
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Freighted with hope, Crimsoned with joy, We scatter the leaves of our opening rose.
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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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In my stiff, brocaded gown. With my powdered hair and jeweled fan, I too am a rare Pattern.
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A man must be sacrificed now and again to provide for the next generation of men.
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Happiness, to some, is elation to others it is mere stagnation.
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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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When I go away from you The world beats dead Like a slackened drum.
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The stigma of oddness is the price a myopic world always exacts of genius.
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Happiness, to some, elation Is, to others, mere stagnation.
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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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My! ain't men blinder'n moles?
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I must be mad, or very tired, When the curve of a blue bay beyond a railroad track Is shrill and sweet to me like the sudden springing of a tune, And the sight of a white church above thin trees in a city square Amazes my eyes as though it were the Parthenon.
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You are ice and fire the touch of you burns my hands like snow.
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Youth condemns maturity condones
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Life is a stream On which we strew Petal by petal the flower of our heart.
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Rapture's self is three parts sorrow.
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Can you see through the night, woman, that you stare so upon it? Man, what sparks do your eyes follow in the smouldering darkness?
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May is much sunshine through small leaves.
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