Quotes from Amy Lowell

Hate is ravening vulture beaks descending on a place of skulls.

Without poetry the soul and heart of man starves and dies.

My! ain't men blinder'n moles?

On the neck of the young man sparkles no gem so gracious as enterprise. Youth condemns; maturity condones.

A man must be sacrificed now and again to provide for the next generation of men.

Poetry, far more than fiction, reveals the soul of humanity.

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.

Happiness, to some, elation; Is, to others, mere stagnation.

Happiness, to some, is elation; to others it is mere stagnation.

Freighted with hope, Crimsoned with joy, We scatter the leaves of our opening rose.

Witches are moon-birds, Witches are the women of the false, beautiful moon.

Can you see through the night, woman, that you stare so upon it? Man, what sparks do your eyes follow in the smouldering darkness?

A pattern called a war.Christ! What are patterns for?

Happiness, to some, elation Is, to others, mere stagnation.

When I go away from you The world beats dead Like a slackened drum....

Sappho would speak, I think, quite openly,And Mrs. Browning guard a careful silence,But Emily would set doors ajar and slam themAnd love you for your speed of observation.

Take everything easy and quit dreaming and brooding and you will be well guarded from a thousand evils.

Heart-leaves of lilac all over New England,Roots of lilac under all the soil of New England,Lilac in me because I am New England.

All books are either dreams or swords, You can cut, or you can drug, with words.

I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against The want of you; Of squeezing it into little inkdrops, And posting it.

A black cat among roses, phlox, lilac-misted under a quarter moon, the sweet smells of heliotrope and night-scented stock. The garden is very still. It is dazed with moonlight, contented with perfume...

For books are more than books, they are the life The very heart and core of ages past, The reason why men lived and worked and died, The essence and quintessence of their lives.

You are ice and fire The touch of you burns my hands like snow

I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against The want of you