Amy Lowell
Amy Lowell
Amy Lawrence Lowellwas an American poet of the imagist school from Brookline, Massachusetts, who posthumously won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1926...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth9 February 1874
CityBrookline, MA
CountryUnited States of America
lasts tradition poet
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.
writing poetry arriving
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.
powerful poetry literature
Poetry is the most concentrated form of literature; it is the most emotionalized and powerful way in which thought can be presented ...
american-poet prone
Moon! Moon! I am prone before you. Pity me, and drench me in loneliness.
american-poet brooding dreams guarded quit thousand
Take everything easy and quit dreaming and brooding and you will be well guarded from a thousand evils.
american-poet cheerfulness
Let us be of cheer, remembering that the misfortunes hardest to bear are those which never come.
bank blank book drawer few looked peaceful random sort
There are few things so futile, and few so amusing, As a peaceful and purposeless sort of perusing Of old random jottings set down in a blank book You've unearthed from a drawer as you looked for your bank book
dream song 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!
men moles
My! ain't men blinder'n moles?
wall heart passion
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.
trying way said
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.
pain joy recurring
All recurring joy is pain refined.
genius world myopic
The stigma of oddness is the price a myopic world always exacts of genius.
happiness elation stagnation
Happiness, to some, is elation; to others it is mere stagnation.