Amy Lowell Quotes
I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against the want of you; of squeezing it into little inkdrops, And posting it.
Polyphonic prose is a kind of free verse, except that it is still freer. Polyphonic makes full use of cadence, rime, alliteration, assonance.
Art is the desire of a man to express himself, to record the reactions of his personality to the world he lives in.
All books are either dreams or swords, You can cut, or you can drug, with words.
Oh! To be a butterfly Still, upon a flower, Winking with its painted wings, Happy in the hour.
Sexual love is the most stupendous fact of the universe, and the most magical mystery our poor blind senses know.
When you came, you were like red wine and honey, and the taste of you burnt my mouth with its sweetness.
Happiness: We rarely feel it. I would buy it, beg it, steal it, Pay in coins of dripping blood For this one transcendent good.
Poets are always the advance guard of literature; the advance guard of life. It is for this reason that their recognition comes so slowly.
Take everything easy and quit dreaming and brooding and you will be well guarded from a thousand evils.
Art is like politics. Any theory carried too far ends in sterility, and freshness is only gained by following some other line.
When trying to explain anything, I usually find that the Bible, that great collection of magnificent and varied poetry, has said it before in the best possible way.
Don’t ask a writer what he’s working on. It’s like asking someone with cancer on the progress of his disease.
In my stiff, brocaded gown. With my powdered hair and jeweled fan, I too am a rare Pattern.
Can you see through the night, woman, that you stare so upon it? Man, what sparks do your eyes follow in the smouldering darkness?
On the neck of the young man sparkles no gem so gracious as enterprise. Youth condemns; maturity condones.
Poetry is the most concentrated form of literature; it is the most emotionalized and powerful way in which thought can be presented.
Great emotion always tends to become rhythmic, and out of that tendency the forms of art have been evolved. Art becomes artificial only when the forms take precedence over the emotion.
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.
Now you are come! You tremble like a star Poised where, behind earth's rim, the sun has set. Your voice has sung across my heart, but numb And mute, I have no tones to answer.
