Amy Lowell

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

Amy Lowell Poems

1. The Congressional Library 1/17/2015
2. Red slippers 4/17/2015
3. Fireworks 11/14/2015
4. A Poet's Wife 4/14/2015
5. On The Mantelpiece 4/16/2015
6. Night Clouds 4/6/2015
7. The Hammers 4/16/2010
8. Stravinsky's Three Pieces 4/16/2010
9. The Fruit Shop 4/16/2010
10. Francis Ii, King Of Naples 1/3/2003
11. Fringed Gentians 1/3/2003
12. The Exeter Road 4/16/2010
13. Towns In Colour 4/16/2010
14. Nuit Blanche 4/16/2010
15. Bullion 4/16/2010
16. Convalescence 4/16/2010
17. The Pond 12/2/2003
18. The Boston Athenaeum 4/16/2010
19. The Precinct. Rochester 4/16/2010
20. Free Fantasia On Japanese Themes 4/16/2010
21. The Grocery 4/16/2010
22. J--K. Huysmans 1/3/2003
23. November 4/16/2010
24. Reaping 4/16/2010
25. Clear, With Light, Variable Winds 4/16/2010
26. The Coal Picker 4/16/2010
27. The Book Of Hours Of Sister Clotilde 4/16/2010
28. The Red Lacquer Music-Stand 4/16/2010
29. The Paper Windmill 4/16/2010
30. The Great Adventure Of Max Breuck 4/16/2010
31. The Road To Avignon 1/3/2003
32. Two Lacquer Prints 4/16/2010
33. Two Travellers In The Place Vendome 4/16/2010
34. Epitaph In A Church-Yard In Charleston, South Carolina 1/3/2003
35. Miscast Ii 4/16/2010
36. Sunshine Through A Cobwebbed Window 4/16/2010
37. La Vie De Boheme 4/16/2010
38. Flute-Priest Song For Rain 4/16/2010
39. The Basket 4/16/2010
40. The Tree Of Scarlet Berries 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

A Little Song

When you, my Dear, are away, away,
How wearily goes the creeping day.
A year drags after morning, and night
Starts another year of candle light.
O Pausing Sun and Lingering Moon!
Grant me, I beg of you, this boon.

Whirl round the earth as never sun
Has his diurnal journey run.

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