Amy Lowell

(9 February 1874 – 12 May 1925 / Boston, Massachusetts)

Amy Lowell Poems

1. A Poet's Wife 4/14/2015
2. On The Mantelpiece 4/16/2015
3. The Congressional Library 1/17/2015
4. Night Clouds 4/6/2015
5. Red slippers 4/17/2015
6. Stravinsky's Three Pieces 4/16/2010
7. Francis Ii, King Of Naples 1/3/2003
8. Towns In Colour 4/16/2010
9. The Fruit Shop 4/16/2010
10. The Hammers 4/16/2010
11. Fringed Gentians 1/3/2003
12. The Pond 12/2/2003
13. Free Fantasia On Japanese Themes 4/16/2010
14. The Exeter Road 4/16/2010
15. Nuit Blanche 4/16/2010
16. J--K. Huysmans 1/3/2003
17. La Vie De Boheme 4/16/2010
18. Reaping 4/16/2010
19. Bullion 4/16/2010
20. Clear, With Light, Variable Winds 4/16/2010
21. In Answer To A Request 4/16/2010
22. Convalescence 4/16/2010
23. The Road To Avignon 1/3/2003
24. Miscast I 4/16/2010
25. Epitaph In A Church-Yard In Charleston, South Carolina 1/3/2003
26. Late September 4/16/2010
27. Off The Turnpike 4/16/2010
28. The Precinct. Rochester 4/16/2010
29. Flute-Priest Song For Rain 4/16/2010
30. Malmaison 4/16/2010
31. The Grocery 4/16/2010
32. November 4/16/2010
33. On Carpaccio's Picture 1/3/2003
34. The Book Of Hours Of Sister Clotilde 4/16/2010
35. The Coal Picker 4/16/2010
36. The Red Lacquer Music-Stand 4/16/2010
37. Obligation 4/16/2010
38. The Paper Windmill 4/16/2010
39. Fool's Money Bags 4/16/2010
40. In A Time Of Dearth 4/16/2010
Best Poem of Amy Lowell

Patterns

I walk down the garden-paths,
And all the daffodils
Are blowing, and the bright blue squills.
I walk down the patterned garden-paths
In my stiff, brocaded gown.
With my powdered hair and jeweled fan,
I too am a rare
Pattern. As I wander down
The garden-paths.
My dress is richly figured,
And the train
Makes a pink and silver stain
On the gravel, and the thrift
Of the borders.
Just a plate of current fashion,
Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes.
Not a softness anywhere about me,
Only whalebone and brocade.
And I sink ...

Read the full of Patterns

Mirage

How is it that, being gone, you fill my days,
And all the long nights are made glad by thee?
No loneliness is this, nor misery,
But great content that these should be the ways
Whereby the Fancy, dreaming as she strays,
Makes bright and present what she would would be.
And who shall say if the reality
Is not with dreams so pregnant. For delays
And hindrances may bar the wished-for end;

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