I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against the want of you; of squeezing it into little inkdrops, And posting it.— Amy Lowell
The most floundering Amy Lowell quotes that are little-known but priceless
Lilacs, False Blue, White, Purple, Colour of lilac, Your great puffs of flowers Are everywhere in this my New England ... Lilacs in dooryards Holding quiet conversation with an early moon; Lilacs watching a deserted house; ... Lilacs, wind-beaten, staggering under a lopsided shock of bloom, You are everywhere.
Polyphonic prose is a kind of free verse, except that it is still freer.
Polyphonic makes full use of cadence, rime, alliteration, assonance.
Art is the desire of a man to express himself, to record the reactions of his personality to the world he lives in.
All books are either dreams or swords, you can cut, or you can drug, with words.
Oh! To be a butterfly Still, upon a flower, Winking with its painted wings, Happy in the hour.
Happiness, to some, elation; Is, to others, mere stagnation.
For books are more than books, they are the life, the very heart and core of ages past, the reason why men worked and died, the essence and quintessence of their lives.
Sexual love is the most stupendous fact of the universe, and the most magical mystery our poor blind senses know.
When you came, you were like red wine and honey, and the taste of you burnt my mouth with its sweetness.
Hate is ravening vulture beaks descending on a place of skulls.
I am tired, beloved, of chafing my heart against the want of you;
of squeezing it into little ink drops, and posting it. And I scald alone, here, under the fire of the great moon.
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.
Life is a stream On which we strew Petal by petal the flower of our heart.
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.
Time! Joyless emblem of the greed of millions, robber of the best which earth can give.
Happiness: We rarely feel it. I would buy it, beg it, steal it, Pay in coins of dripping blood For this one transcendent good.
The stigma of oddness is the price a myopic world always exacts of genius.
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.
A man must be sacrificed now and again to provide for the next generation of men.
All books are either dreams or swords.
When I go away from you The world beats dead Like a slackened drum.
Art is like politics. Any theory carried too far ends in sterility, and freshness is only gained by following some other line.
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.
You are ice and fire the touch of you burns my hands like snow.
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.
Oh! To be a flower Nodding in the sun, Bending, then upspringing As the breezes run.
How loud clocks can tick when a room is empty, and one is alone!
Youth condemns; maturity condones.
Even Pain pricks to livelier living.
Rapture's self is three parts sorrow.
Moon! Moon! am prone before you. Pity me, and drench me in loneliness.
Let us be of cheer, remembering that the misfortunes hardest to bear are those which never come.
Moon! Moon! I am prone before you. Pity me, and drench me in loneliness.
For books are more than books, they are the life, the very heart and core of ages past, the reason why men lived and worked and died, the essence and quintessence of their lives.
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.
May is much sunshine through small leaves.
I shall go Up and down In my gown. Gorgeously arrayed, Boned and stayed.
Fifteen millions of soldiers with popguns and horses All bent upon killing, because their "of courses" Are not quite the same.
Can you see through the night, woman, that you stare so upon it? Man, what sparks do your eyes follow in the smouldering darkness?
I should like to bring a case to trial: Prosperity versus Beauty, Cash registers teetering in a balance against the comfort of the soul.
All books are either dreams or swords, You can cut, or you can drug, with words.
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.
Don’t ask a writer what he’s working on.
It’s like asking someone with cancer on the progress of his disease.
To-night when the full-bellied moon swallows the stars. Grant that I know.
Freighted with hope, Crimsoned with joy, We scatter the leaves of our opening rose.
You are ice and fire the touch of you burns my hands like snow
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.