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 Captured Goddess 4/16/2010
136. The Coal Picker 4/16/2010
137. The Congressional Library 1/17/2015
138. The Country House 4/16/2010
139. The Cremona Violin 4/16/2010
140. The Crescent Moon 1/3/2003
141. The Cross-Roads 4/16/2010
142. The Cyclists 4/16/2010
143. The Dinner-Party 4/16/2010
144. The End 1/3/2003
145. The Exeter Road 4/16/2010
146. The Fool Errant 1/3/2003
147. The Foreigner 4/16/2010
148. The Forsaken 4/16/2010
149. The Fruit Garden Path 1/3/2003
150. The Fruit Shop 4/16/2010
151. The Garden By Moonlight 1/3/2003
152. The Giver Of Stars 4/16/2010
153. The Great Adventure Of Max Breuck 4/16/2010
154. The Green Bowl 1/3/2003
155. The Grocery 4/16/2010
156. The Hammers 4/16/2010
157. The Lamp Of Life 1/3/2003
158. The Last Quarter Of The Moon 4/16/2010
159. The Letter 1/13/2003
160. The Little Garden 1/3/2003
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

Opal

You are ice and fire,
The touch of you burns my hands like snow.
You are cold and flame.
You are the crimson of amaryllis,
The silver of moon-touched magnolias.
When I am with you,
My heart is a frozen pond
Gleaming with agitated torches.


Submitted by Venus

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