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

More quotes by Amy Lowell

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Not a softness anywhere about me, Only whalebone and brocade.
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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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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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To-night when the full-bellied moon swallows the stars. Grant that I know.
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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
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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?
Amy Lowell
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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.
Amy Lowell
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Hate is ravening vulture beaks descending on a place of skulls.
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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.
Amy Lowell
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All recurring joy is pain refined.
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Everything mortal has moments immortal
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Moon! Moon! I am prone before you. Pity me,and drench me in loneliness.
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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 you came, you were like red wine and honey, and the taste of you burnt my mouth with its sweetness.
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Rapture's self is three parts sorrow.
Amy Lowell
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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.
Amy Lowell
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If what we worship fail us, still the fire burns on, and it is much to have believed.
Amy Lowell
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A man must be sacrificed now and again to provide for the next generation of men.
Amy Lowell
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You are ice and fire the touch of you burns my hands like snow.
Amy Lowell
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Fifteen millions of soldiers with popguns and horses All bent upon killing, because their of courses Are not quite the same.
Amy Lowell