Amy Lowell

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

Amy Lowell Poems

161. Hero-Worship 1/3/2003
162. A Coloured Print By Shokei 1/3/2003
163. The Little Garden 1/3/2003
164. Leisure 1/3/2003
165. Behind A Wall 1/3/2003
166. Falling Snow 1/3/2003
167. From One Who Stays 1/3/2003
168. Interlude 1/3/2003
169. Absence 4/16/2010
170. Listening 1/3/2003
171. New York At Night 1/3/2003
172. A Gift 4/16/2010
173. At Night 1/3/2003
174. Before Dawn 1/3/2003
175. The End 1/3/2003
176. Before The Altar 1/3/2003
177. The Garden By Moonlight 1/3/2003
178. Astigmatism 1/20/2003
179. Azure And Gold 1/3/2003
180. Apples Of Hesperides 1/3/2003
181. Autumn 1/3/2003
182. The Taxi 1/3/2003
183. Dreams 1/3/2003
184. A Fixed Idea 1/3/2003
185. Opal 1/13/2003
186. The Wind 1/3/2003
187. A Winter Ride 1/3/2003
188. Petals 1/3/2003
189. Apology 1/4/2003
190. Aubade 1/3/2003
191. The Letter 1/13/2003
192. A London Thoroughfare. 2 A.M. 1/20/2003
193. To A Friend 1/3/2003
194. A Fairy Tale 1/3/2003
195. Decade 1/3/2003
196. Aftermath 1/3/2003
197. A Japanese Wood-Carving 1/3/2003
198. A Little Song 1/3/2003
199. A Lady 1/4/2003
200. Patterns 1/3/2003

Comments about Amy Lowell

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  • Priti (8/7/2018 12:52:00 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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