Amy Lowell

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

Amy Lowell Poems

81. Malmaison 4/16/2010
82. March Evening 1/3/2003
83. Market Day 1/3/2003
84. Middle Age 4/16/2010
85. Mirage 1/3/2003
86. Miscast I 4/16/2010
87. Miscast Ii 4/16/2010
88. Monadnock In Early Spring 1/3/2003
89. Music 4/16/2010
90. New York At Night 1/3/2003
91. Night Clouds 4/6/2015
92. Nightmare: A Tale For An Autumn Evening 4/16/2010
93. November 4/16/2010
94. Nuit Blanche 4/16/2010
95. Number 3 On The Docket 4/16/2010
96. Obligation 4/16/2010
97. Off The Turnpike 4/16/2010
98. On Carpaccio's Picture 1/3/2003
99. On The Mantelpiece 4/16/2015
100. Opal 1/13/2003
101. Patience 4/16/2010
102. Patterns 1/3/2003
103. Penumbra 4/16/2010
104. Petals 1/3/2003
105. Pickthorn Manor 4/16/2010
106. Prayer For A Profusion Of Sunflowers 1/3/2003
107. Prayer For Lightning 1/3/2003
108. Reaping 4/16/2010
109. Red slippers 4/17/2015
110. Reflections 4/16/2010
111. Roads 1/3/2003
112. Sancta Maria, Succurre Miseris 4/16/2010
113. Sea Shell 4/16/2010
114. September, 1918 4/16/2010
115. Solitaire 4/16/2010
116. Song 1/3/2003
117. Spring Day 4/16/2010
118. Storm-Racked 4/16/2010
119. Stravinsky's Three Pieces 4/16/2010
120. Stupidity 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 ...

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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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