Amy Lowell

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

Amy Lowell Poems

161. The Matrix 1/3/2003
162. The Painted Ceiling 1/3/2003
163. The Painter On Silk 4/16/2010
164. The Paper Windmill 4/16/2010
165. The Pike 4/16/2010
166. The Pleiades 1/3/2003
167. The Poet 1/3/2003
168. The Pond 12/2/2003
169. The Precinct. Rochester 4/16/2010
170. The Promise Of The Morning Star 1/3/2003
171. The Red Lacquer Music-Stand 4/16/2010
172. The Road To Avignon 1/3/2003
173. The Shadow 4/16/2010
174. The Starling 1/3/2003
175. The Taxi 1/3/2003
176. The Temple 4/16/2010
177. The Travelling Bear 4/16/2010
178. The Tree Of Scarlet Berries 4/16/2010
179. The Trout 1/3/2003
180. The Way 1/3/2003
181. The Wind 1/3/2003
182. Thompson’s Lunch Room—grand Central Station 4/16/2010
183. To A Friend 1/3/2003
184. To A Husband 4/16/2010
185. To An Early Daffodil 1/3/2003
186. To Elizabeth Ward Perkins 1/3/2003
187. To John Keats 1/3/2003
188. To-Morrow To Fresh Woods And Pastures New 4/16/2010
189. Towns In Colour 4/16/2010
190. Two Lacquer Prints 4/16/2010
191. Two Travellers In The Place Vendome 4/16/2010
192. Venetian Glass 1/3/2003
193. Venus Transiens 1/3/2003
194. Vintage 4/16/2010
195. White And Green 4/16/2010
196. White Currants 1/3/2003
197. Wind 4/16/2010
198. Women's Harvest Song 1/3/2003
199. Women's Song Of The Corn 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

Apology

Be not angry with me that I bear
   Your colours everywhere,
   All through each crowded street,
   And meet
   The wonder-light in every eye,
   As I go by.

Each plodding wayfarer looks up to gaze,
   Blinded by rainbow haze,

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