About Amy Lowell: Amy Lawrence Lowell was an American poet of the imagist school from Brookline, Massachusetts, who posthumously won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1926.
When I go away from you The world beats dead Like a slackened drum. I call out for you against the jutted stars And shout into the ridges of the wind. Streets coming fast, One after the other, Wedge you away from me, And the lamps of the city prick m...
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.
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.
Christ! What are patterns for?
Time! Joyless emblem of the greed of millions, robber of the best which earth can give.
The inkstand is full of ink, and the paper lies white and unspotted, in the round of light thrown by a candle. Puffs of darkness sweep into the corners, and keep rolling through the room behind his chair. The air is silver and pearl, for the night is...
I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against The want of you; Of squeezing it into little inkdrops, And posting it.
Tell me, Was Venus more beautiful Than you are, When she topped The crinkled waves, Drifting shoreward On her plaited shell? Was Botticelli’s vision Fairer than mine; And were the painted rosebuds He tossed his lady Of better worth Than the words I...
Glinting golden through the trees, Apples of Hesperides! Through the moon-pierced warp of night Shoot pale shafts of yellow light, Swaying to the kissing breeze Swings the treasure, golden-gleaming, Apples of Hesperides!. Far and lofty yet they glimm...
Don’t ask a writer what he’s working on. It’s like asking someone with cancer on the progress of his disease.
Happiness, to some, elation; Is, to others, mere stagnation.
Take everything easy and quit dreaming and brooding and you will be well guarded from a thousand evils.
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.
In science, read by preference the newest works. In literature, read the oldest. The classics are always modern.
A man must be sacrificed now and again to provide for the next generation of men.
You are ice and fire the touch of you burns my hands like snow.
Let us be of cheer, remembering that the misfortunes hardest to bear are those which never come.
Hate is ravening vulture beaks descending on a place of skulls.
Moon! Moon! I am prone before you. Pity me, and drench me in loneliness.
