Amy Lowell quotes: wise famous quotes, sayings and quotations by Amy Lowell

Amy Lowell Famous Quotes & Sayings

Discover top inspirational quotes from Amy Lowell on Wise Famous Quotes.

I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against
The want of you;
Of squeezing it into little inkdrops,
And posting it.

Happiness, to some, is elation; to others it is mere stagnation.

All books are either dreams or swords,
You can cut, or you can drug, with words.

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

Take everything easy and quit dreaming and brooding and you will be well guarded from a thousand evils.

In science, read by preference the newest works. In literature, read the oldest. The classics are always modern.

I know that a creed is the shell of a lie.

I should like to bring a case to trial: Prosperity versus Beauty, Cash registers teetering in a balance against the comfort of the soul.

To-night when the full-bellied moon swallows the stars. Grant that I know.

Oh! To be a butterfly Still, upon a flower, Winking with its painted wings, Happy in the hour.

Poetry, far more than fiction, reveals the soul of humanity.

Without poetry the soul and heart of man starves and dies.

Poets are always the advance guard of literature; the advance guard of life. It is for this reason that their recognition comes so slowly.

How hard, how desperately hard, is the way of the experimenter in art!

Christ! What are patterns for?

Happiness: We rarely feel it. I would buy it, beg it, steal it, Pay in coins of dripping blood For this one transcendent good.

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.

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.

All recurring joy is pain refined.

Freighted with hope, Crimsoned with joy, We scatter the leaves of our opening rose.

The stigma of oddness is the price a myopic world always exacts of genius.

Love is a game-yes? I think it is a drowning.

Witches are moon-birds,
Witches are the women of the false, beautiful moon.

Everything mortal has moments immortal

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!

I shall go
Up and down
In my gown.
Gorgeously arrayed,
Boned and stayed.

Rapture's self is three parts sorrow.

If what we worship fail us, still the fire burns on, and it is much to have believed.

Art is like politics. Any theory carried too far ends in sterility, and freshness is only gained by following some other line.

A man must be sacrificed now and again to provide for the next generation of men.

Can you see through the night, woman, that you stare so upon it? Man, what sparks do your eyes follow in the smouldering darkness?

You are ice and fire
The touch of you burns my hands like snow

Not a softness anywhere about me,
Only whalebone and brocade.

Happiness, to some, elation; Is, to others, mere stagnation.

Fifteen millions of soldiers with popguns and horses All bent upon killing, because their "of courses" Are not quite the same.

In my stiff, brocaded gown.
With my powdered hair and jeweled fan,
I too am a rare
Pattern.

Polyphonic prose is a kind of free verse, except that it is still freer. Polyphonic makes full use of cadence, rime, alliteration, assonance.

When I go away from you
The world beats dead
Like a slackened drum.

Sexual love is the most stupendous fact of the universe, and the most magical mystery our poor blind senses know.

Art is the desire of a man to express himself, to record the reactions of his personality to the world he lives in.

Don't ask a writer what he's working on. It's like asking someone with cancer on the progress of his disease.

When you came, you were like red wine and honey, and the taste of you burnt my mouth with its sweetness.

Brighter than fireflies upon the Uji River are your words in the dark, Beloved.

May is much sunshine through small leaves.

Time! Joyless emblem of the greed of millions, robber of the best which earth can give.

Hate is ravening vulture beaks descending on a place of skulls.

On the neck of the young man sparkles no gem so gracious as enterprise. Youth condemns; maturity condones.

Even Pain pricks to livelier living.