Amy Lowell

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

Amy Lowell Poems

1. Fringed Gentians 1/3/2003
2. J--K. Huysmans 1/3/2003
3. On Carpaccio's Picture 1/3/2003
4. Women's Harvest Song 1/3/2003
5. Epitaph In A Church-Yard In Charleston, South Carolina 1/3/2003
6. The Boston Athenaeum 4/16/2010
7. The Exeter Road 4/16/2010
8. Night Clouds 4/6/2015
9. A Poet's Wife 4/14/2015
10. On The Mantelpiece 4/16/2015
11. Red slippers 4/17/2015
12. Fireworks 11/14/2015
13. The Congressional Library 1/17/2015
14. The Coal Picker 4/16/2010
15. The Book Of Hours Of Sister Clotilde 4/16/2010
16. The Road To Avignon 1/3/2003
17. Flute-Priest Song For Rain 4/16/2010
18. Free Fantasia On Japanese Themes 4/16/2010
19. Malmaison 4/16/2010
20. Miscast I 4/16/2010
21. Off The Turnpike 4/16/2010
22. Stravinsky's Three Pieces 4/16/2010
23. Teatro Bambino. Dublin, N. H. 1/3/2003
24. Francis Ii, King Of Naples 1/3/2003
25. Venetian Glass 1/3/2003
26. Nuit Blanche 4/16/2010
27. The Promise Of The Morning Star 1/3/2003
28. Frankincense And Myrrh 1/3/2003
29. The Great Adventure Of Max Breuck 4/16/2010
30. The Grocery 4/16/2010
31. The Precinct. Rochester 4/16/2010
32. Basket Dance 1/3/2003
33. Prayer For Lightning 1/3/2003
34. The Red Lacquer Music-Stand 4/16/2010
35. The Artist 4/16/2010
36. The Basket 4/16/2010
37. Obligation 4/16/2010
38. Reaping 4/16/2010
39. La Vie De Boheme 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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