Amy Lowell Quotes
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Poets are always the advance guard of literature; the advance guard of life. It is for this reason that their recognition comes so slowly.
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My heart is tuned to sorrow, and the strings Vibrate most readily to minor chords, Searching and sad; my mind is stuffed with words Which voice the passion and the ache of things: Illusions beating with their baffled wings Against the walls of circumstance.
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I shall go Up and down In my gown. Gorgeously arrayed, Boned and stayed.
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Only those of our poets who kept solidly to the Shakespearean tradition achieved any measure of success. But Keats was the last great exponent of that tradition, and we all know how thin, how lacking in charm, the copies of Keats have become.
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I should like to bring a case to trial: Prosperity versus Beauty, Cash registers teetering in a balance against the comfort of the soul.
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Happiness, to some, elation; Is, to others, mere stagnation.
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How much more beautiful is the moon, Slanting down the gauffered branches of a plum-tree; The moon Wavering across a bed of tulips; The moon, Still, Upon your face. You shine, Beloved, You and the moon. But which is the reflection?
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Sexual love is the most stupendous fact of the universe, and the most magical mystery our poor blind senses know.
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Oh! To be a flower Nodding in the sun, Bending, then upspringing As the breezes run.
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Everything mortal has moments immortal
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Life is a stream On which we strew Petal by petal the flower of our heart.
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Happiness, to some, is elation; to others it is mere stagnation.
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Moon! Moon! I am prone before you. Pity me,and drench me in loneliness.
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I know that a creed is the shell of a lie.
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I ask but one thing of you, only one, That always you will be my dream of you; That never shall I wake to find untrue All this I have believed and rested on, Forever vanished, like a vision gone Out into the night. Alas, how few There are who strike in us a chord we knew Existed, but so seldom heard its tone We tremble at the half-forgotten sound. The world is full of rude awakenings And heaven-born castles shattered to the ground, Yet still our human longing vainly clings To a belief in beauty through all wrongs. O stay your hand, and leave my heart its songs!
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Happiness: We rarely feel it. I would buy it, beg it, steal it, Pay in coins of dripping blood For this one transcendent good.
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Oh! To be a butterfly Still, upon a flower, Winking with its painted wings, Happy in the hour.
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I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against the want of you; of squeezing it into little inkdrops, And posting it.
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Even pain pricks to livelier living.
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So with the stretch of the white road before me, Shining snow crystals rainbowed by the sun, Fields that are white, stained with long, cool, blue shadows, Strong with the strength of my horse as we run. Joy in the touch of the wind and the sunlight! Joy! With the vigorous earth I am one.
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Witches are moon-birds, Witches are the women of the false, beautiful moon.
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Lilacs, False Blue, White, Purple, Colour of lilac, Your great puffs of flowers Are everywhere in this my New England ... Lilacs in dooryards Holding quiet conversation with an early moon; Lilacs watching a deserted house; ... Lilacs, wind-beaten, staggering under a lopsided shock of bloom, You are everywhere.
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May is much sunshine through small leaves.
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This is America, This vast, confused beauty, This staring, restless speed of loveliness, Mighty, overwhelming, crude, of all forms, Making grandeur out of profusion, Afraid of no incongruities, Sublime in its audacity, Bizarre breaker of moulds.
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The stigma of oddness is the price a myopic world always exacts of genius.
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A man must be sacrificed now and again to provide for the next generation of men.
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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.
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To-night when the full-bellied moon swallows the stars. Grant that I know.
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Polyphonic prose is a kind of free verse, except that it is still freer. Polyphonic makes full use of cadence, rime, alliteration, assonance.
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I never deny poems when they come; whatever I am doing, whatever I am writing, I lay it aside and attend to the arriving poem.
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