Amy Lowell

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

Amy Lowell Poems

1. A Poet's Wife 4/14/2015
2. Red slippers 4/17/2015
3. The Camellia Tree of Matsue 8/9/2016
4. Fireworks 11/14/2015
5. On The Mantelpiece 4/16/2015
6. Night Clouds 4/6/2015
7. The Congressional Library 1/17/2015
8. Stravinsky's Three Pieces 4/16/2010
9. Francis Ii, King Of Naples 1/3/2003
10. Towns In Colour 4/16/2010
11. The Fruit Shop 4/16/2010
12. The Hammers 4/16/2010
13. Fringed Gentians 1/3/2003
14. The Pond 12/2/2003
15. Free Fantasia On Japanese Themes 4/16/2010
16. The Exeter Road 4/16/2010
17. Nuit Blanche 4/16/2010
18. J--K. Huysmans 1/3/2003
19. Reaping 4/16/2010
20. La Vie De Boheme 4/16/2010
21. Bullion 4/16/2010
22. Clear, With Light, Variable Winds 4/16/2010
23. In Answer To A Request 4/16/2010
24. Convalescence 4/16/2010
25. The Road To Avignon 1/3/2003
26. Miscast I 4/16/2010
27. Epitaph In A Church-Yard In Charleston, South Carolina 1/3/2003
28. The Boston Athenaeum 4/16/2010
29. Late September 4/16/2010
30. Off The Turnpike 4/16/2010
31. The Precinct. Rochester 4/16/2010
32. Flute-Priest Song For Rain 4/16/2010
33. Malmaison 4/16/2010
34. The Grocery 4/16/2010
35. November 4/16/2010
36. On Carpaccio's Picture 1/3/2003
37. The Coal Picker 4/16/2010
38. The Book Of Hours Of Sister Clotilde 4/16/2010
39. The Red Lacquer Music-Stand 4/16/2010
40. The Paper Windmill 4/16/2010
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;

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