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

Robert Lowell Famous Quotes & Sayings

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

If youth is a defect, it is one that we outgrow too soon.

In the end, every hypochondriac is his own prophet.

The scythers, Time and Death,
Helmed locusts, move upon the tree of breath

Life begins to happen.
My hoppped up husband drops his home disputes,
and hits the streets to cruise for prostitutes

But sometimes everything I write
with the threadbare art of my eye
seems a snapshot

Those blessed structures, plot and rhyme
why are they no help to me now
I want to make
something imagined, not recalled?

In the end, there is no end.

Wallowing in this bloody sty,
I cast for fish that pleased my eye

If youth is a defect, it is one we outgrow too soon.

Then morning comes,
saying, "This was a night.

What we love we are.

Poetry is not the record of an event: it is an event.

It is night,
And it is vanity, and age
Blackens the heart of Adam. Fear,
The yellow chirper, beaks its cage.

One universe, one body ... in this urn
the animal night sweats of the spirit burn

Once fishing was a rabbit's foot
O wind blow cold, O wind blow hot

I was overcome with an attack of pathological enthusiasm.

F we see light at the end of the tunnel, It's the light of the oncoming train.

If we see light at the end of the tunnel, it the light of the oncoming train.

Dearest I cannot loiter here
in lather like a polar bear.

It's the light of the oncoming train.

We are all old-timers,
each of us holds a locked razor.

And blue-lung'd combers lumbered to the kill.

Talking about the past is like a cat's trying to explain climbing down a ladder,

The world is absolutely out of control now and is not going to be saved by any reason or unreason.

This
is the departure strip,
the dream-road. Whoever built it
left numbers, words and arrows.
He had to leave in a hurry.

The slick bare tar, the same suburban station.

How fine our distinctions when we cannot choose

Everywhere, giant finned cars nose forward like fish; a savage servility slides by on grease.

It's not a visitation by angels, but a weakening in the blood
a magical orange grove in a nightmare

September twenty-second, Sir, the bough cracks with unpicked apples, and at dawn the small-mouth bass breaks water, gorged with spawn.

The dead season when wolves live off the wind.

Most poetry is very formal, but when a modern poet is formal he gets more attention for it than old poets did.

Tockytock, tockytock
clumped our Alpine, Edwardian cuckoo clock,
slung with strangled, wooden game.

The Lord survives the rainbow of His will.

In Boston serpents whistle at the cold.

The light at the end of the tunnel is just the light of an oncoming train.

The barberry berry sticks on the small hedge,
cold slits the same crease in the finger,
the same thorn hurts. The leaf repeats the lesson.

Some morbidity in me attracts mosquitoes

Middle Age At forty-five, What next, what next? At every corner, I meet my Father, My age, still alive.

I myself am hell;
nobody's here

We wished our two souls
might return like gulls
to the rock. In the end,
the water was too cold for us.

The black hardrubber bathtub stopper at the Parker house.

Their monument sticks like a fishbone in the city's throat.