Quote

Poetry is the most concentrated form of literature it is the most emotionalized and powerful way in which thought can be presented.

Amy Lowell

Change background

T
T
T

Change font

TAGS & TOPICS

Amy Lowell
Age: 51 †
Born: 1874
Born: February 9
Died: 1925
Died: May 12
Poet
Socialite
Writer
Brookline
Massachusetts
Amy Lawrence Lowell
Poetry
Literature
Powerful
Form
Thought
Way
Concentrated
Presented

More quotes by Amy Lowell

Image
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.
Amy Lowell
Image
You are ice and fire the touch of you burns my hands like snow.
Amy Lowell
Image
Life is a stream On which we strew Petal by petal the flower of our heart.
Amy Lowell
Image
May is much sunshine through small leaves.
Amy Lowell
Image
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.
Amy Lowell
Image
Everything mortal has moments immortal
Amy Lowell
Image
Even pain pricks to livelier living.
Amy Lowell
Image
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.
Amy Lowell
Image
Moon! Moon! I am prone before you. Pity me,and drench me in loneliness.
Amy Lowell
Image
Can you see through the night, woman, that you stare so upon it? Man, what sparks do your eyes follow in the smouldering darkness?
Amy Lowell
Image
Don’t ask a writer what he’s working on. It’s like asking someone with cancer on the progress of his disease.
Amy Lowell
Image
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.
Amy Lowell
Image
Hate is ravening vulture beaks descending on a place of skulls.
Amy Lowell
Image
All books are either dreams or swords, you can cut, or you can drug, with words.
Amy Lowell
Image
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
Image
When I go away from you The world beats dead Like a slackened drum.
Amy Lowell
Image
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
Image
My heart is tuned to sorrow, and the strings Vibrate most readily to minor chords, Searching and sad my mind is stuffed with words Which voice the passion and the ache of things: Illusions beating with their baffled wings Against the walls of circumstance.
Amy Lowell
Image
Love is a game-yes? I think it is a drowning.
Amy Lowell
Image
In my stiff, brocaded gown. With my powdered hair and jeweled fan, I too am a rare Pattern.
Amy Lowell