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

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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