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Amy Lowell Short Poems

Famous Short Amy Lowell Poems. Short poetry by famous poet Amy Lowell. A collection of the all-time best Amy Lowell short poems


Aubade  Create an image from this poem
by Amy Lowell
 As I would free the white almond from the green husk
So would I strip your trappings off,
Beloved.
And fingering the smooth and polished kernel I should see that in my hands glittered a gem beyond counting.



by Amy Lowell
 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.

by Amy Lowell
 To Ezra Pound;With 
much friendship and admiration and some differences of opinion

by Amy Lowell
 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.

by Amy Lowell
 Sea Shell, Sea Shell,
Sing me a song, O Please!
A song of ships, and sailor men,
And parrots, and tropical trees,
Of islands lost in the Spanish Main
Which no man ever may find again,
Of fishes and corals under the waves,
And seahorses stabled in great green caves.
Sea Shell, Sea Shell, Sing of the things you know so well.

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.

by Amy Lowell
 As for a moment he stands, in hardy masculine beauty,
Poised on the fircrested rock, over the pool which below him
Gleams in the wavering sunlight, waiting the shock of his plunging.
So for a moment I stand, my feet planted firm in the present, Eagerly scanning the future which is so soon to possess me.



A Gift  Create an image from this poem
by Amy Lowell
 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.

by Amy Lowell
 Outside the long window,
With his head on the stone sill,
The dog is lying,
Gazing at his Beloved.
His eyes are wet and urgent, And his body is taut and shaking.
It is cold on the terrace; A pale wind licks along the stone slabs, But the dog gazes through the glass And is content.
The Beloved is writing a letter.
Occasionally she speaks to the dog, But she is thinking of her writing.
Does she, too, give her devotion to one Not worthy?

by Amy Lowell
 Red slippers in a shop-window, and outside in the 
street, flaws of grey,
windy sleet!

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.

by Amy Lowell
 Beneath this sod lie the remains
Of one who died of growing pains.

by Amy Lowell
 Naughty little speckled trout,
Can't I coax you to come out?
Is it such great fun to play
In the water every day?
Do you pull the Naiads' hair
Hiding in the lilies there?
Do you hunt for fishes' eggs,
Or watch tadpoles grow their legs?
Do the little trouts have school
In some deep sun-glinted pool,
And in recess play at tag
Round that bed of purple flag?
I have tried so hard to catch you,
Hours and hours I've sat to watch you;
But you never will come out,
Naughty little speckled trout!

by Amy Lowell
 When I go away from you
The world beats dead
Like a slackened drum.
I call out for you against the jutted stars And shout into the ridges of the wind.
Streets coming fast, One after the other, Wedge you away from me, And the lamps of the city prick my eyes So that I can no longer see your face.
Why should I leave you, To wound myself upon the sharp edges of the night?

by Amy Lowell
 Hold your apron wide
That I may pour my gifts into it,
So that scarcely shall your two arms hinder them
From falling to the ground.
I would pour them upon you And cover you, For greatly do I feel this need Of giving you something, Even these poor things.
Dearest of my Heart!

by Amy Lowell
 Spread on the roadway,
With open-blown jackets,
Like black, soaring pinions,
They swoop down the hillside,
The Cyclists.
Seeming dark-plumaged Birds, after carrion, Careening and circling, Over the dying Of England.
She lies with her bosom Beneath them, no longer The Dominant Mother, The Virile -- but rotting Before time.
The smell of her, tainted, Has bitten their nostrils.
Exultant they hover, And shadow the sun with Foreboding.

by Amy Lowell
 My heart is like a cleft pomegranate
Bleeding crimson seeds
And dripping them on the ground.
My heart gapes because it is ripe and over-full, And its seeds are bursting from it.
But how is this other than a torment to me! I, who am shut up, with broken crockery, In a dark closet!

by Amy Lowell
 Hey! My daffodil-crowned,
Slim and without sandals!
As the sudden spurt of flame upon darkness
So my eyeballs are startled with you,
Supple-limbed youth among the fruit-trees,
Light runner through tasselled orchards.
You are an almond flower unsheathed Leaping and flickering between the budded branches.

by Amy Lowell
 You glow in my heart
Like the flames of uncounted candles.
But when I go to warm my hands, My clumsiness overturns the light, And then I stumble Against the tables and chairs.

by Amy Lowell
 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.


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