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

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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