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I never deny poems when they come whatever I am doing, whatever I am writing, I lay it aside and attend to the arriving poem.

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
Deny
Poetry
Whatever
Arriving
Come
Attend
Writing
Poems
Never
Aside
Poem
Lays

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Life is a stream On which we strew Petal by petal the flower of our heart.
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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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A black cat among roses, phlox, lilac-misted under a quarter moon, the sweet smells of heliotrope and night-scented stock. The garden is very still. It is dazed with moonlight, contented with perfume.
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This is America, This vast, confused beauty, This staring, restless speed of loveliness, Mighty, overwhelming, crude, of all forms, Making grandeur out of profusion, Afraid of no incongruities, Sublime in its audacity, Bizarre breaker of moulds.
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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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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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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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Youth condemns maturity condones
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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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Time! Joyless emblem of the greed of millions, robber of the best which earth can give.
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I know that a creed is the shell of a lie.
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All books are either dreams or swords, you can cut, or you can drug, with words.
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Underneath my stiffened gown Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin
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When you came, you were like red wine and honey, and the taste of you burnt my mouth with its sweetness.
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The stigma of oddness is the price a myopic world always exacts of genius.
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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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Hate is ravening vulture beaks descending on a place of skulls.
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My! ain't men blinder'n moles?
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Even pain pricks to livelier living.
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May is much sunshine through small leaves.
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