American poet (1874-1925)
Then I see you,
Standing under a spire of pale blue larkspur,
With a basket of roses on your arm.
You are cool, like silver,
And you smile.
I think the Canterbury bells are playing little tunes.
AMY LOWELL
"Madonna of the Evening Flowers", Pictures of the Floating World
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.
AMY LOWELL
"Frankincense and Myrrh", A Dome of Many-coloured Glass
Hate is ravening vulture beaks descending on a place of skulls.
AMY LOWELL
"The Revenge", The New Republic, July 12, 1922
Poets are always the advance guard of literature; the advance guard of life. It is for this reason that their recognition comes so slowly.
AMY LOWELL
preface, Tendencies in Modern Poetry