Amy Lowell

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

Amy Lowell Poems

121. The Painted Ceiling 1/3/2003
122. Mirage 1/3/2003
123. Music 4/16/2010
124. A Lover 4/16/2010
125. The Trout 1/3/2003
126. Climbing 1/3/2003
127. Prayer For Lightning 1/3/2003
128. A Tale Of Starvation 4/16/2010
129. To Elizabeth Ward Perkins 1/3/2003
130. Venetian Glass 1/3/2003
131. Roads 1/3/2003
132. Hora Stellatrix 1/3/2003
133. The Poet 1/3/2003
134. Happiness 4/16/2010
135. Basket Dance 1/3/2003
136. White Currants 1/3/2003
137. The Way 1/3/2003
138. Crowned 1/3/2003
139. Hoar-Frost 1/3/2003
140. Prayer For A Profusion Of Sunflowers 1/3/2003
141. Women's Song Of The Corn 1/3/2003
142. The Starling 1/3/2003
143. Fatigue 1/3/2003
144. The Green Bowl 1/3/2003
145. To John Keats 1/3/2003
146. The Bungler 1/3/2003
147. Song 1/3/2003
148. Carrefour 1/3/2003
149. Leisure 1/3/2003
150. A Blockhead 4/16/2010
151. The Pleiades 1/3/2003
152. In Darkness 1/3/2003
153. In Excelsis 1/3/2003
154. The Lamp Of Life 1/3/2003
155. Madonna Of The Evening Flowers 1/3/2003
156. Suggested By The Cover Of A Volume Of Keats's Poems 1/3/2003
157. Venus Transiens 1/3/2003
158. Listening 1/3/2003
159. The Crescent Moon 1/3/2003
160. To An Early Daffodil 1/3/2003

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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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