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Best Famous Amy Lowell Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Amy Lowell poems. This is a select list of the best famous Amy Lowell poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Amy Lowell poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Amy Lowell poems.

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Written by Amy Lowell |

Sunshine through a Cobwebbed Window

 What charm is yours, you faded old-world tapestries,
Of outworn, childish mysteries,
Vague pageants woven on a web of dream!
And we, pushing and fighting in the turbid stream
Of modern life, find solace in your tarnished broideries.
Old lichened halls, sun-shaded by huge cedar-trees, The layered branches horizontal stretched, like Japanese Dark-banded prints.
Carven cathedrals, on a sky Of faintest colour, where the gothic spires fly And sway like masts, against a shifting breeze.
Worm-eaten pages, clasped in old brown vellum, shrunk From over-handling, by some anxious monk.
Or Virgin's Hours, bright with gold and graven With flowers, and rare birds, and all the Saints of Heaven, And Noah's ark stuck on Ararat, when all the world had sunk.
They soothe us like a song, heard in a garden, sung By youthful minstrels, on the moonlight flung In cadences and falls, to ease a queen, Widowed and childless, cowering in a screen Of myrtles, whose life hangs with all its threads unstrung.

Written by Amy Lowell |


 I know a country laced with roads,
They join the hills and they span the brooks,
They weave like a shuttle between broad fields,
And slide discreetly through hidden nooks.
They are canopied like a Persian dome And carpeted with orient dyes.
They are myriad-voiced, and musical, And scented with happiest memories.
O Winding roads that I know so well, Every twist and turn, every hollow and hill! They are set in my heart to a pulsing tune Gay as a honey-bee humming in June.
'T is the rhythmic beat of a horse's feet And the pattering paws of a sheep-dog bitch; 'T is the creaking trees, and the singing breeze, And the rustle of leaves in the road-side ditch.
A cow in a meadow shakes her bell And the notes cut sharp through the autumn air, Each chattering brook bears a fleet of leaves Their cargo the rainbow, and just now where The sun splashed bright on the road ahead A startled rabbit quivered and fled.
O Uphill roads and roads that dip down! You curl your sun-spattered length along, And your march is beaten into a song By the softly ringing hoofs of a horse And the panting breath of the dogs I love.
The pageant of Autumn follows its course And the blue sky of Autumn laughs above.
And the song and the country become as one, I see it as music, I hear it as light; Prismatic and shimmering, trembling to tone, The land of desire, my soul's delight.
And always it beats in my listening ears With the gentle thud of a horse's stride, With the swift-falling steps of many dogs, Following, following at my side.
O Roads that journey to fairyland! Radiant highways whose vistas gleam, Leading me on, under crimson leaves, To the opaline gates of the Castles of Dream.

Written by Amy Lowell |

New York at Night

 A near horizon whose sharp jags
Cut brutally into a sky
Of leaden heaviness, and crags
Of houses lift their masonry
Ugly and foul, and chimneys lie
And snort, outlined against the gray
Of lowhung cloud.
I hear the sigh The goaded city gives, not day Nor night can ease her heart, her anguished labours stay.
Below, straight streets, monotonous, From north and south, from east and west, Stretch glittering; and luminous Above, one tower tops the rest And holds aloft man's constant quest: Time! Joyless emblem of the greed Of millions, robber of the best Which earth can give, the vulgar creed Has seared upon the night its flaming ruthless screed.
O Night! Whose soothing presence brings The quiet shining of the stars.
O Night! Whose cloak of darkness clings So intimately close that scars Are hid from our own eyes.
Beggars By day, our wealth is having night To burn our souls before altars Dim and tree-shadowed, where the light Is shed from a young moon, mysteriously bright.
Where art thou hiding, where thy peace? This is the hour, but thou art not.
Will waking tumult never cease? Hast thou thy votary forgot? Nature forsakes this man-begot And festering wilderness, and now The long still hours are here, no jot Of dear communing do I know; Instead the glaring, man-filled city groans below!

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Written by Amy Lowell |


 Happiness, to some, elation;
Is, to others, mere stagnation.
Days of passive somnolence, At its wildest, indolence.
Hours of empty quietness, No delight, and no distress.
Happiness to me is wine, Effervescent, superfine.
Full of tang and fiery pleasure, Far too hot to leave me leisure For a single thought beyond it.
Drunk! Forgetful! This the bond: it Means to give one's soul to gain Life's quintessence.
Even pain Pricks to livelier living, then Wakes the nerves to laugh again, Rapture's self is three parts sorrow.
Although we must die to-morrow, Losing every thought but this; Torn, triumphant, drowned in bliss.
Happiness: We rarely feel it.
I would buy it, beg it, steal it, Pay in coins of dripping blood For this one transcendent good.

Written by Amy Lowell |

In Darkness

 Must all of worth be travailled for, and those
Life's brightest stars rise from a troubled sea?
Must years go by in sad uncertainty
Leaving us doubting whose the conquering blows,
Are we or Fate the victors? Time which shows
All inner meanings will reveal, but we
Shall never know the upshot.
Ours to be Wasted with longing, shattered in the throes, The agonies of splendid dreams, which day Dims from our vision, but each night brings back; We strive to hold their grandeur, and essay To be the thing we dream.
Sudden we lack The flash of insight, life grows drear and gray, And hour follows hour, nerveless, slack.

Written by Amy Lowell |

In Answer to a Request

 You ask me for a sonnet.
Ah, my Dear, Can clocks tick back to yesterday at noon? Can cracked and fallen leaves recall last June And leap up on the boughs, now stiff and sere? For your sake, I would go and seek the year, Faded beyond the purple ranks of dune, Blown sands of drifted hours, which the moon Streaks with a ghostly finger, and her sneer Pulls at my lengthening shadow.
Yes, 'tis that! My shadow stretches forward, and the ground Is dark in front because the light's behind.
It is grotesque, with such a funny hat, In watching it and walking I have found More than enough to occupy my mind.
I cannot turn, the light would make me blind.

Written by Amy Lowell |


 An arid daylight shines along the beach
Dried to a grey monotony of tone,
And stranded jelly-fish melt soft upon
The sun-baked pebbles, far beyond their reach
Sparkles a wet, reviving sea.
Here bleach The skeletons of fishes, every bone Polished and stark, like traceries of stone, The joints and knuckles hardened each to each.
And they are dead while waiting for the sea, The moon-pursuing sea, to come again.
Their hearts are blown away on the hot breeze.
Only the shells and stones can wait to be Washed bright.
For living things, who suffer pain, May not endure till time can bring them ease.

Written by Amy Lowell |

The Last Quarter of the Moon

 How long shall I tarnish the mirror of life,
A spatter of rust on its polished steel!
The seasons reel
Like a goaded wheel.
Half-numb, half-maddened, my days are strife.
The night is sliding towards the dawn, And upturned hills crouch at autumn's knees.
A torn moon flees Through the hemlock trees, The hours have gnawed it to feed their spawn.
Pursuing and jeering the misshapen thing A rabble of clouds flares out of the east.
Like dogs unleashed After a beast, They stream on the sky, an outflung string.
A desolate wind, through the unpeopled dark, Shakes the bushes and whistles through empty nests, And the fierce unrests I keep as guests Crowd my brain with corpses, pallid and stark.
Leave me in peace, O Spectres, who haunt My labouring mind, I have fought and failed.
I have not quailed, I was all unmailed And naked I strove, 'tis my only vaunt.
The moon drops into the silver day As waking out of her swoon she comes.
I hear the drums Of millenniums Beating the mornings I still must stay.
The years I must watch go in and out, While I build with water, and dig in air, And the trumpets blare Hollow despair, The shuddering trumpets of utter rout.
An atom tossed in a chaos made Of yeasting worlds, which bubble and foam.
Whence have I come? What would be home? I hear no answer.
I am afraid! I crave to be lost like a wind-blown flame.
Pushed into nothingness by a breath, And quench in a wreath Of engulfing death This fight for a God, or this devil's game.

Written by Amy Lowell |

The Poet

 What instinct forces man to journey on,
Urged by a longing blind but dominant!
Nothing he sees can hold him, nothing daunt
His never failing eagerness.
The sun Setting in splendour every night has won His vassalage; those towers flamboyant Of airy cloudland palaces now haunt His daylight wanderings.
Forever done With simple joys and quiet happiness He guards the vision of the sunset sky; Though faint with weariness he must possess Some fragment of the sunset's majesty; He spurns life's human friendships to profess Life's loneliness of dreaming ecstasy.

Written by Amy Lowell |

The Matrix

 Goaded and harassed in the factory
That tears our life up into bits of days
Ticked off upon a clock which never stays,
Shredding our portion of Eternity,
We break away at last, and steal the key
Which hides a world empty of hours; ways
Of space unroll, and Heaven overlays
The leafy, sun-lit earth of Fantasy.
Beyond the ilex shadow glares the sun, Scorching against the blue flame of the sky.
Brown lily-pads lie heavy and supine Within a granite basin, under one The bronze-gold glimmer of a carp; and I Reach out my hand and pluck a nectarine.

Written by Amy Lowell |

The Blue Scarf

 Pale, with the blue of high zeniths, shimmered 
over with silver, brocaded
In smooth, running patterns, a soft stuff, with dark knotted fringes,
it lies there,
Warm from a woman's soft shoulders, and my fingers close on it, 
Where is she, the woman who wore it? The scent of her lingers and drugs me! A languor, fire-shotted, runs through me, and I crush the scarf down on my face, And gulp in the warmth and the blueness, and my eyes swim in cool-tinted heavens.
Around me are columns of marble, and a diapered, sun-flickered pavement.
Rose-leaves blow and patter against it.
Below the stone steps a lute tinkles.
A jar of green jade throws its shadow half over the floor.
A big-bellied Frog hops through the sunlight and plops in the gold-bubbled water of a basin, Sunk in the black and white marble.
The west wind has lifted a scarf On the seat close beside me, the blue of it is a violent outrage of colour.
She draws it more closely about her, and it ripples beneath her slight stirring.
Her kisses are sharp buds of fire; and I burn back against her, a jewel Hard and white; a stalked, flaming flower; till I break to a handful of cinders, And open my eyes to the scarf, shining blue in the afternoon sunshine.
How loud clocks can tick when a room is empty, and one is alone!

Written by Amy Lowell |

Late September

 Tang of fruitage in the air;
Red boughs bursting everywhere;
Shimmering of seeded grass;
Hooded gentians all a'mass.
Warmth of earth, and cloudless wind Tearing off the husky rind, Blowing feathered seeds to fall By the sun-baked, sheltering wall.
Beech trees in a golden haze; Hardy sumachs all ablaze, Glowing through the silver birches.
How that pine tree shouts and lurches! From the sunny door-jamb high, Swings the shell of a butterfly.
Scrape of insect violins Through the stubble shrilly dins.
Every blade's a minaret Where a small muezzin's set, Loudly calling us to pray At the miracle of day.
Then the purple-lidded night Westering comes, her footsteps light Guided by the radiant boon Of a sickle-shaped new moon.

Written by Amy Lowell |


 Leisure, thou goddess of a bygone age,
When hours were long and days sufficed to hold
Wide-eyed delights and pleasures uncontrolled
By shortening moments, when no gaunt presage
Of undone duties, modern heritage,
Haunted our happy minds; must thou withhold
Thy presence from this over-busy world,
And bearing silence with thee disengage
Our twined fortunes? Deeps of unhewn woods
Alone can cherish thee, alone possess
Thy quiet, teeming vigor.
This our crime: Not to have worshipped, marred by alien moods That sole condition of all loveliness, The dreaming lapse of slow, unmeasured time.

Written by Amy Lowell |


 Be patient with you?
When the stooping sky
Leans down upon the hills
And tenderly, as one who soothing stills
An anguish, gathers earth to lie
Embraced and girdled.
Do the sun-filled men Feel patience then? Be patient with you? When the snow-girt earth Cracks to let through a spurt Of sudden green, and from the muddy dirt A snowdrop leaps, how mark its worth To eyes frost-hardened, and do weary men Feel patience then? Be patient with you? When pain's iron bars Their rivets tighten, stern To bend and break their victims; as they turn, Hopeless, there stand the purple jars Of night to spill oblivion.
Do these men Feel patience then? Be patient with you? You! My sun and moon! My basketful of flowers! My money-bag of shining dreams! My hours, Windless and still, of afternoon! You are my world and I your citizen.
What meaning can have patience then?

Written by Amy Lowell |


 Be not angry with me that I bear
Your colours everywhere,
All through each crowded street,
And meet
The wonder-light in every eye,
As I go by.
Each plodding wayfarer looks up to gaze, Blinded by rainbow haze, The stuff of happiness, No less, Which wraps me in its glad-hued folds Of peacock golds.
Before my feet the dusty, rough-paved way Flushes beneath its gray.
My steps fall ringed with light, So bright, It seems a myriad suns are strown About the town.
Around me is the sound of steepled bells, And rich perfumed smells Hang like a wind-forgotten cloud, And shroud Me from close contact with the world.
I dwell impearled.
You blazon me with jewelled insignia.
A flaming nebula Rims in my life.
And yet You set The word upon me, unconfessed To go unguessed.