Amy Lowell

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

Amy Lowell Poems

41. In A Time Of Dearth 4/16/2010
42. The Great Adventure Of Max Breuck 4/16/2010
43. Crepuscule Du Matin 1/3/2003
44. Pickthorn Manor 4/16/2010
45. Middle Age 4/16/2010
46. Two Lacquer Prints 4/16/2010
47. Two Travellers In The Place Vendome 4/16/2010
48. Epitaph In A Church-Yard In Charleston, South Carolina 1/3/2003
49. In A Castle 4/16/2010
50. Miscast Ii 4/16/2010
51. Sunshine Through A Cobwebbed Window 4/16/2010
52. Lead Soldiers 4/16/2010
53. The Basket 4/16/2010
54. The Tree Of Scarlet Berries 4/16/2010
55. The Cross-Roads 4/16/2010
56. Sancta Maria, Succurre Miseris 4/16/2010
57. Reflections 4/16/2010
58. The Cremona Violin 4/16/2010
59. Haunted 4/16/2010
60. Stupidity 4/16/2010
61. The Blue Scarf 4/16/2010
62. Nightmare: A Tale For An Autumn Evening 4/16/2010
63. The Cyclists 4/16/2010
64. Vintage 4/16/2010
65. Solitaire 4/16/2010
66. The Pike 4/16/2010
67. The Travelling Bear 4/16/2010
68. The Forsaken 4/16/2010
69. Grotesque 4/16/2010
70. Number 3 On The Docket 4/16/2010
71. The Artist 4/16/2010
72. The Country House 4/16/2010
73. Thompson’s Lunch Room—grand Central Station 4/16/2010
74. Penumbra 4/16/2010
75. The Temple 4/16/2010
76. The Painter On Silk 4/16/2010
77. The Last Quarter Of The Moon 4/16/2010
78. Sword Blades And Poppy Seed 4/16/2010
79. The Dinner-Party 4/16/2010
80. White And Green 4/16/2010

Comments about Amy Lowell

  • Dhanush (9/16/2018 8:25:00 PM)

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  • Priti (8/7/2018 12:52:00 PM)

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  • Deepanshu zinder (6/19/2018 11:07:00 PM)

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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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