Amy Lowell

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

Amy Lowell Poems

121. Stupidity 4/16/2010
122. Suggested By The Cover Of A Volume Of Keats's Poems 1/3/2003
123. Summer 1/3/2003
124. Sunshine Through A Cobwebbed Window 4/16/2010
125. Sword Blades And Poppy Seed 4/16/2010
126. Teatro Bambino. Dublin, N. H. 1/3/2003
127. The Allies 4/16/2010
128. The Artist 4/16/2010
129. The Basket 4/16/2010
130. The Blue Scarf 4/16/2010
131. The Bombardment 4/16/2010
132. The Book Of Hours Of Sister Clotilde 4/16/2010
133. The Boston Athenaeum 4/16/2010
134. The Bungler 1/3/2003
135. The Camellia Tree of Matsue 8/9/2016
136. The Captured Goddess 4/16/2010
137. The Coal Picker 4/16/2010
138. The Congressional Library 1/17/2015
139. The Country House 4/16/2010
140. The Cremona Violin 4/16/2010
141. The Crescent Moon 1/3/2003
142. The Cross-Roads 4/16/2010
143. The Cyclists 4/16/2010
144. The Dinner-Party 4/16/2010
145. The End 1/3/2003
146. The Exeter Road 4/16/2010
147. The Fool Errant 1/3/2003
148. The Foreigner 4/16/2010
149. The Forsaken 4/16/2010
150. The Fruit Garden Path 1/3/2003
151. The Fruit Shop 4/16/2010
152. The Garden By Moonlight 1/3/2003
153. The Giver Of Stars 4/16/2010
154. The Great Adventure Of Max Breuck 4/16/2010
155. The Green Bowl 1/3/2003
156. The Grocery 4/16/2010
157. The Hammers 4/16/2010
158. The Lamp Of Life 1/3/2003
159. The Last Quarter Of The Moon 4/16/2010
160. The Letter 1/13/2003
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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