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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 | |

A Blockhead

 Before me lies a mass of shapeless days,
Unseparated atoms, and I must
Sort them apart and live them.
Sifted dust Covers the formless heap.
Reprieves, delays, There are none, ever.
As a monk who prays The sliding beads asunder, so I thrust Each tasteless particle aside, and just Begin again the task which never stays.
And I have known a glory of great suns, When days flashed by, pulsing with joy and fire! Drunk bubbled wine in goblets of desire, And felt the whipped blood laughing as it runs! Spilt is that liquor, my too hasty hand Threw down the cup, and did not understand.


Written by Amy Lowell | |

A Lady

 You are beautiful and faded
Like an old opera tune
Played upon a harpsichord;
Or like the sun-flooded silks
Of an eighteenth-century boudoir.
In your eyes Smoulder the fallen roses of out-lived minutes, And the perfume of your soul Is vague and suffusing, With the pungence of sealed spice-jars.
Your half-tones delight me, And I grow mad with gazing At your blent colours.
My vigour is a new-minted penny, Which I cast at your feet.
Gather it up from the dust, That its sparkle may amuse you.


Written by Amy Lowell | |

Crowned

 You came to me bearing bright roses,
Red like the wine of your heart;
You twisted them into a garland
To set me aside from the mart.
Red roses to crown me your lover, And I walked aureoled and apart.
Enslaved and encircled, I bore it, Proud token of my gift to you.
The petals waned paler, and shriveled, And dropped; and the thorns started through.
Bitter thorns to proclaim me your lover, A diadem woven with rue.


More great poems below...

Written by Amy Lowell | |

Hora Stellatrix

 The stars hang thick in the apple tree,
The south wind smells of the pungent sea,
Gold tulip cups are heavy with dew.
The night's for you, Sweetheart, for you! Starfire rains from the vaulted blue.
Listen! The dancing of unseen leaves.
A drowsy swallow stirs in the eaves.
Only a maiden is sorrowing.
'T is night and spring, Sweetheart, and spring! Starfire lights your heart's blossoming.
In the intimate dark there's never an ear, Though the tulips stand on tiptoe to hear, So give; ripe fruit must shrivel or fall.
As you are mine, Sweetheart, give all! Starfire sparkles, your coronal.


Written by Amy Lowell | |

Crepuscule du Matin

 All night I wrestled with a memory
Which knocked insurgent at the gates of thought.
The crumbled wreck of years behind has wrought Its disillusion; now I only cry For peace, for power to forget the lie Which hope too long has whispered.
So I sought The sleep which would not come, and night was fraught With old emotions weeping silently.
I heard your voice again, and knew the things Which you had promised proved an empty vaunt.
I felt your clinging hands while night's broad wings Cherished our love in darkness.
From the lawn A sudden, quivering birdnote, like a taunt.
My arms held nothing but the empty dawn.


Written by Amy Lowell | |

Storm-Racked

 How should I sing when buffeting salt waves
And stung with bitter surges, in whose might
I toss, a cockleshell? The dreadful night
Marshals its undefeated dark and raves
In brutal madness, reeling over graves
Of vanquished men, long-sunken out of sight,
Sent wailing down to glut the ghoulish sprite
Who haunts foul seaweed forests and their caves.
No parting cloud reveals a watery star, My cries are washed away upon the wind, My cramped and blistering hands can find no spar, My eyes with hope o'erstrained, are growing blind.
But painted on the sky great visions burn, My voice, oblation from a shattered urn!


Written by Amy Lowell | |

Vintage

 I will mix me a drink of stars, --
Large stars with polychrome needles,
Small stars jetting maroon and crimson,
Cool, quiet, green stars.
I will tear them out of the sky, And squeeze them over an old silver cup, And I will pour the cold scorn of my Beloved into it, So that my drink shall be bubbled with ice.
It will lap and scratch As I swallow it down; And I shall feel it as a serpent of fire, Coiling and twisting in my belly.
His snortings will rise to my head, And I shall be hot, and laugh, Forgetting that I have ever known a woman.


Written by Amy Lowell | |

The Giver of Stars

 Hold your soul open for my welcoming.
Let the quiet of your spirit bathe me With its clear and rippled coolness, That, loose-limbed and weary, I find rest, Outstretched upon your peace, as on a bed of ivory.
Let the flickering flame of your soul play all about me, That into my limbs may come the keenness of fire, The life and joy of tongues of flame, And, going out from you, tightly strung and in tune, I may rouse the blear-eyed world, And pour into it the beauty which you have begotten.


Written by Amy Lowell | |

A Gift

 See! I give myself to you, Beloved!
My words are little jars
For you to take and put upon a shelf.
Their shapes are quaint and beautiful, And they have many pleasant colours and lustres To recommend them.
Also the scent from them fills the room With sweetness of flowers and crushed grasses.
When I shall have given you the last one, You will have the whole of me, But I shall be dead.


Written by Amy Lowell | |

Before Dawn

 Life! Austere arbiter of each man's fate,
By whom he learns that Nature's steadfast laws
Are as decrees immutable; O pause
Your even forward march! Not yet too late
Teach me the needed lesson, when to wait
Inactive as a ship when no wind draws
To stretch the loosened cordage.
One implores Thy clemency, whose wilfulness innate Has gone uncurbed and roughshod while the years Have lengthened into decades; now distressed He knows no rule by which to move or stay, And teased with restlessness and desperate fears He dares not watch in silence thy wise way Bringing about results none could have guessed.


Written by Amy Lowell | |

On Carpaccios Picture: The Dream of St. Ursula

 Swept, clean, and still, across the polished floor
From some unshuttered casement, hid from sight,
The level sunshine slants, its greater light
Quenching the little lamp which pallid, poor,
Flickering, unreplenished, at the door
Has striven against darkness the long night.
Dawn fills the room, and penetrating, bright, The silent sunbeams through the window pour.
And she lies sleeping, ignorant of Fate, Enmeshed in listless dreams, her soul not yet Ripened to bear the purport of this day.
The morning breeze scarce stirs the coverlet, A shadow falls across the sunlight; wait! A lark is singing as he flies away.


Written by Amy Lowell | |

Mirage

 How is it that, being gone, you fill my days,
And all the long nights are made glad by thee?
No loneliness is this, nor misery,
But great content that these should be the ways
Whereby the Fancy, dreaming as she strays,
Makes bright and present what she would would be.
And who shall say if the reality Is not with dreams so pregnant.
For delays And hindrances may bar the wished-for end; A thousand misconceptions may prevent Our souls from coming near enough to blend; Let me but think we have the same intent, That each one needs to call the other, "friend!" It may be vain illusion.
I'm content.


Written by Amy Lowell | |

Anticipation

 I have been temperate always,
But I am like to be very drunk
With your coming.
There have been times I feared to walk down the street Lest I should reel with the wine of you, And jerk against my neighbours As they go by.
I am parched now, and my tongue is horrible in my mouth, But my brain is noisy With the clash and gurgle of filling wine-cups.


Written by Amy Lowell | |

From One Who Stays

 How empty seems the town now you are gone!
A wilderness of sad streets, where gaunt walls
Hide nothing to desire; sunshine falls
Eery, distorted, as it long had shone
On white, dead faces tombed in halls of stone.
The whir of motors, stricken through with calls Of playing boys, floats up at intervals; But all these noises blur to one long moan.
What quest is worth pursuing? And how strange That other men still go accustomed ways! I hate their interest in the things they do.
A spectre-horde repeating without change An old routine.
Alone I know the days Are still-born, and the world stopped, lacking you.


Written by Amy Lowell | |

The Tree of Scarlet Berries

 The rain gullies the garden paths
And tinkles on the broad sides of grass blades.
A tree, at the end of my arm, is hazy with mist.
Even so, I can see that it has red berries, A scarlet fruit, Filmed over with moisture.
It seems as though the rain, Dripping from it, Should be tinged with colour.
I desire the berries, But, in the mist, I only scratch my hand on the thorns.
Probably, too, they are bitter.