Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

CreationEarth Nature Photos

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.

Search for the best famous Amy Lowell poems, articles about Amy Lowell poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Amy Lowell poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See also:

Famous poems below this ad
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 |

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 |


 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.

More great poems below...

Written by Amy Lowell |

The Dinner-Party

"So .
" they said, With their wine-glasses delicately poised, Mocking at the thing they cannot understand.
"So .
" they said again, Amused and insolent.
The silver on the table glittered, And the red wine in the glasses Seemed the blood I had wasted In a foolish cause.
Game The gentleman with the grey-and-black whiskers Sneered languidly over his quail.
Then my heart flew up and laboured, And I burst from my own holding And hurled myself forward.
With straight blows I beat upon him, Furiously, with red-hot anger, I thrust against him.
But my weapon slithered over his polished surface, And I recoiled upon myself, Panting.
Drawing-Room In a dress all softness and half-tones, Indolent and half-reclined, She lay upon a couch, With the firelight reflected in her jewels.
But her eyes had no reflection, They swam in a grey smoke, The smoke of smouldering ashes, The smoke of her cindered heart.
Coffee They sat in a circle with their coffee-cups.
One dropped in a lump of sugar, One stirred with a spoon.
I saw them as a circle of ghosts Sipping blackness out of beautiful china, And mildly protesting against my coarseness In being alive.
Talk They took dead men's souls And pinned them on their breasts for ornament; Their cuff-links and tiaras Were gems dug from a grave; They were ghouls battening on exhumed thoughts; And I took a green liqueur from a servant So that he might come near me And give me the comfort of a living thing.
Eleven O'Clock The front door was hard and heavy, It shut behind me on the house of ghosts.
I flattened my feet on the pavement To feel it solid under me; I ran my hand along the railings And shook them, And pressed their pointed bars Into my palms.
The hurt of it reassured me, And I did it again and again Until they were bruised.
When I woke in the night I laughed to find them aching, For only living flesh can suffer.

Written by Amy Lowell |

A Fairy Tale

 On winter nights beside the nursery fire
We read the fairy tale, while glowing coals
Builded its pictures.
There before our eyes We saw the vaulted hall of traceried stone Uprear itself, the distant ceiling hung With pendent stalactites like frozen vines; And all along the walls at intervals, Curled upwards into pillars, roses climbed, And ramped and were confined, and clustered leaves Divided where there peered a laughing face.
The foliage seemed to rustle in the wind, A silent murmur, carved in still, gray stone.
High pointed windows pierced the southern wall Whence proud escutcheons flung prismatic fires To stain the tessellated marble floor With pools of red, and quivering green, and blue; And in the shade beyond the further door, Its sober squares of black and white were hid Beneath a restless, shuffling, wide-eyed mob Of lackeys and retainers come to view The Christening.
A sudden blare of trumpets, and the throng About the entrance parted as the guests Filed singly in with rare and precious gifts.
Our eager fancies noted all they brought, The glorious, unattainable delights! But always there was one unbidden guest Who cursed the child and left it bitterness.
The fire falls asunder, all is changed, I am no more a child, and what I see Is not a fairy tale, but life, my life.
The gifts are there, the many pleasant things: Health, wealth, long-settled friendships, with a name Which honors all who bear it, and the power Of making words obedient.
This is much; But overshadowing all is still the curse, That never shall I be fulfilled by love! Along the parching highroad of the world No other soul shall bear mine company.
Always shall I be teased with semblances, With cruel impostures, which I trust awhile Then dash to pieces, as a careless boy Flings a kaleidoscope, which shattering Strews all the ground about with coloured sherds.
So I behold my visions on the ground No longer radiant, an ignoble heap Of broken, dusty glass.
And so, unlit, Even by hope or faith, my dragging steps Force me forever through the passing days.

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 |


 'T is you that are the music, not your song.
The song is but a door which, opening wide, Lets forth the pent-up melody inside, Your spirit's harmony, which clear and strong Sings but of you.
Throughout your whole life long Your songs, your thoughts, your doings, each divide This perfect beauty; waves within a tide, Or single notes amid a glorious throng.
The song of earth has many different chords; Ocean has many moods and many tones Yet always ocean.
In the damp Spring woods The painted trillium smiles, while crisp pine cones Autumn alone can ripen.
So is this One music with a thousand cadences.

Written by Amy Lowell |

An Aquarium

 Streaks of green and yellow iridescence,
Silver shiftings,
Rings veering out of rings,
Silver -- gold --
Grey-green opaqueness sliding down,
With sharp white bubbles
Shooting and dancing,
Flinging quickly outward.
Nosing the bubbles, Swallowing them, Fish.
Blue shadows against silver-saffron water, The light rippling over them In steel-bright tremors.
Outspread translucent fins Flute, fold, and relapse; The threaded light prints through them on the pebbles In scarcely tarnished twinklings.
Curving of spotted spines, Slow up-shifts, Lazy convolutions: Then a sudden swift straightening And darting below: Oblique grey shadows Athwart a pale casement.
Roped and curled, Green man-eating eels Slumber in undulate rhythms, With crests laid horizontal on their backs.
Barred fish, Striped fish, Uneven disks of fish, Slip, slide, whirl, turn, And never touch.
Metallic blue fish, With fins wide and yellow and swaying Like Oriental fans, Hold the sun in their bellies And glow with light: Blue brilliance cut by black bars.
An oblong pane of straw-coloured shimmer, Across it, in a tangent, A smear of rose, black, silver.
Short twists and upstartings, Rose-black, in a setting of bubbles: Sunshine playing between red and black flowers On a blue and gold lawn.
Shadows and polished surfaces, Facets of mauve and purple, A constant modulation of values.
Shaft-shaped, With green bead eyes; Thick-nosed, Heliotrope-coloured; Swift spots of chrysolite and coral; In the midst of green, pearl, amethyst irradiations.
Outside, A willow-tree flickers With little white jerks, And long blue waves Rise steadily beyond the outer islands.

Written by Amy Lowell |

The Green Bowl

 This little bowl is like a mossy pool
In a Spring wood, where dogtooth violets grow
Nodding in chequered sunshine of the trees;
A quiet place, still, with the sound of birds,
Where, though unseen, is heard the endless song
And murmur of the never resting sea.
'T was winter, Roger, when you made this cup, But coming Spring guided your eager hand And round the edge you fashioned young green leaves, A proper chalice made to hold the shy And little flowers of the woods.
And here They will forget their sad uprooting, lost In pleasure that this circle of bright leaves Should be their setting; once more they will dream They hear winds wandering through lofty trees And see the sun smiling between the leaves.

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 |

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 |

Francis II King of Naples

 Written after reading Trevelyan's "Garibaldi 
and the making of Italy"

Poor foolish monarch, vacillating, vain,
Decaying victim of a race of kings,
Swift Destiny shook out her purple wings
And caught him in their shadow; not again
Could furtive plotting smear another stain
Across his tarnished honour.
Smoulderings Of sacrificial fires burst their rings And blotted out in smoke his lost domain.
Bereft of courtiers, only with his queen, From empty palace down to empty quay.
No challenge screamed from hostile carabine.
A single vessel waited, shadowy; All night she ploughed her solitary way Beneath the stars, and through a tranquil sea.

Written by Amy Lowell |


 What is poetry? Is it a mosaic
Of coloured stones which curiously are wrought
Into a pattern? Rather glass that's taught
By patient labor any hue to take
And glowing with a sumptuous splendor, make
Beauty a thing of awe; where sunbeams caught,
Transmuted fall in sheafs of rainbows fraught
With storied meaning for religion's sake.

Written by Amy Lowell |

At Night

 The wind is singing through the trees to-night,
A deep-voiced song of rushing cadences
And crashing intervals.
No summer breeze Is this, though hot July is at its height, Gone is her gentler music; with delight She listens to this booming like the seas, These elemental, loud necessities Which call to her to answer their swift might.
Above the tossing trees shines down a star, Quietly bright; this wild, tumultuous joy Quickens nor dims its splendour.
And my mind, O Star! is filled with your white light, from far, So suffer me this one night to enjoy The freedom of the onward sweeping wind.

Written by Amy Lowell |

The Foreigner

 Have at you, you Devils!
My back's to this tree,
For you're nothing so nice
That the hind-side of me
Would escape your assault.
Come on now, all three! Here's a dandified gentleman, Rapier at point, And a wrist which whirls round Like a circular joint.
A spatter of blood, man! That's just to anoint And make supple your limbs.
'Tis a pity the silk Of your waistcoat is stained.
Why! Your heart's full of milk, And so full, it spills over! I'm not of your ilk.
You said so, and laughed At my old-fashioned hose, At the cut of my hair, At the length of my nose.
To carve it to pattern I think you propose.
Your pardon, young Sir, But my nose and my sword Are proving themselves In quite perfect accord.
I grieve to have spotted Your shirt.
On my word! And hullo! You Bully! That blade's not a stick To slash right and left, And my skull is too thick To be cleft with such cuffs Of a sword.
Now a lick Down the side of your face.
What a pretty, red line! Tell the taverns that scar Was an honour.
Don't whine That a stranger has marked you.
* * * * * The tree's there, You Swine! Did you think to get in At the back, while your friends Made a little diversion In front? So it ends, With your sword clattering down On the ground.
'Tis amends I make for your courteous Reception of me, A foreigner, landed From over the sea.
Your welcome was fervent I think you'll agree.
My shoes are not buckled With gold, nor my hair Oiled and scented, my jacket's Not satin, I wear Corded breeches, wide hats, And I make people stare! So I do, but my heart Is the heart of a man, And my thoughts cannot twirl In the limited span 'Twixt my head and my heels, As some other men's can.
I have business more strange Than the shape of my boots, And my interests range From the sky, to the roots Of this dung-hill you live in, You half-rotted shoots Of a mouldering tree! Here's at you, once more.
You Apes! You Jack-fools! You can show me the door, And jeer at my ways, But you're pinked to the core.
And before I have done, I will prick my name in With the front of my steel, And your lily-white skin Shall be printed with me.
For I've come here to win!