I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against the want of you; of squeezing it into little inkdrops, And posting it. Amy Lowell More Quotes by Amy Lowell More Quotes From Amy Lowell May is much sunshine through small leaves. Amy Lowell sunshine may How hard, how desperately hard, is the way of the experimenter in art! Amy Lowell hard way art 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 tradition poet lasts 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 tired eye sweet To understand Vers libre, one must abandon all desire to find in it the even rhythm of metrical feet. One must allow the lines to flow as they will when read aloud by an intelligent reader. Amy Lowell intelligent feet desire Polyphonic prose is a kind of free verse, except that it is still freer. Polyphonic makes full use of cadence, rime, alliteration, assonance. Amy Lowell cadence kind use 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 voice stars heart Happiness, to some, elation; Is, to others, mere stagnation. Amy Lowell stagnation elation happiness 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 moon beautiful night Rapture's self is three parts sorrow. Amy Lowell experience sorrow self Youth condemns; maturity condones Amy Lowell youth maturity Even pain pricks to livelier living. Amy Lowell pain 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 cancer progress writing Everything mortal has moments immortal Amy Lowell immortal mortals moments Life is a stream On which we strew Petal by petal the flower of our heart; The end lost in dream, They float past our view, We only watch their glad, early start. Freighted with hope, Crimsoned with joy, We scatter the leaves of our opening rose; Their widening scope, Their distant employ, We never shall know. And the stream as it flows Sweeps them away, Each one is gone Ever beyond into infinite ways. We alone stay While years hurry on, The flower fared forth, though its fragrance still stays. Amy Lowell flower dream heart I ask but one thing of you, only one, That always you will be my dream of you; That never shall I wake to find untrue All this I have believed and rested on, Forever vanished, like a vision gone Out into the night. Alas, how few There are who strike in us a chord we knew Existed, but so seldom heard its tone We tremble at the half-forgotten sound. The world is full of rude awakenings And heaven-born castles shattered to the ground, Yet still our human longing vainly clings To a belief in beauty through all wrongs. O stay your hand, and leave my heart its songs! Amy Lowell dream heart song 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 eye inspirational life To-night when the full-bellied moon swallows the stars. Grant that I know. Amy Lowell stars moon life Love is a game-yes? I think it is a drowning. Amy Lowell broken-heart love-is thinking Happiness, to some, is elation; to others it is mere stagnation. Amy Lowell stagnation elation happiness
