Amy Lowell

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

Amy Lowell Poems

161. The Little Garden 1/3/2003
162. The Matrix 1/3/2003
163. The Painted Ceiling 1/3/2003
164. The Painter On Silk 4/16/2010
165. The Paper Windmill 4/16/2010
166. The Pike 4/16/2010
167. The Pleiades 1/3/2003
168. The Poet 1/3/2003
169. The Pond 12/2/2003
170. The Precinct. Rochester 4/16/2010
171. The Promise Of The Morning Star 1/3/2003
172. The Red Lacquer Music-Stand 4/16/2010
173. The Road To Avignon 1/3/2003
174. The Shadow 4/16/2010
175. The Starling 1/3/2003
176. The Taxi 1/3/2003
177. The Temple 4/16/2010
178. The Travelling Bear 4/16/2010
179. The Tree Of Scarlet Berries 4/16/2010
180. The Trout 1/3/2003
181. The Way 1/3/2003
182. The Wind 1/3/2003
183. Thompson’s Lunch Room—grand Central Station 4/16/2010
184. To A Friend 1/3/2003
185. To A Husband 4/16/2010
186. To An Early Daffodil 1/3/2003
187. To Elizabeth Ward Perkins 1/3/2003
188. To John Keats 1/3/2003
189. To-Morrow To Fresh Woods And Pastures New 4/16/2010
190. Towns In Colour 4/16/2010
191. Two Lacquer Prints 4/16/2010
192. Two Travellers In The Place Vendome 4/16/2010
193. Venetian Glass 1/3/2003
194. Venus Transiens 1/3/2003
195. Vintage 4/16/2010
196. White And Green 4/16/2010
197. White Currants 1/3/2003
198. Wind 4/16/2010
199. Women's Harvest Song 1/3/2003
200. 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

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;

[Report Error]