Amy Lowell
Amy Lowell
Amy Lawrence Lowellwas an American poet of the imagist school from Brookline, Massachusetts, who posthumously won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1926...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth9 February 1874
CityBrookline, MA
CountryUnited States of America
use cadence kind
Polyphonic prose is a kind of free verse, except that it is still freer. Polyphonic makes full use of cadence, rime, alliteration, assonance.
wall gay soldier
Guarded within the old red wall's embrace, Marshalled like soldiers in gay company, The tulips stand arrayed. Here infantry Wheels out into the sunlight.
hair gowns patterns
In my stiff, brocaded gown. With my powdered hair and jeweled fan, I too am a rare Pattern.
powerful poetry literature
Poetry is the most concentrated form of literature; it is the most emotionalized and powerful way in which thought can be presented ...
softness
Not a softness anywhere about me, Only whalebone and brocade.
sunshine may
May is much sunshine through small leaves.
rooms emptiness tick
How loud clocks can tick when a room is empty, and one is alone!
intelligent feet desire
To understand Vers libre, one must abandon all desire to find in it the even rhythm of metrical feet. One must allow the lines to flow as they will when read aloud by an intelligent reader.
trying way said
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.
pain joy recurring
All recurring joy is pain refined.
inspirational life beautiful
Witches are moon-birds, Witches are the women of the false, beautiful moon.
inspirational life eye
Can you see through the night, woman, that you stare so upon it? Man, what sparks do your eyes follow in the smouldering darkness?
dream song heart
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!
fire belief worship
If what we worship fail us, still the fire burns on, and it is much to have believed.