Amy Lowell

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

Amy Lowell Poems

161. Leisure 1/3/2003
162. Suggested By The Cover Of A Volume Of Keats's Poems 1/3/2003
163. Before Dawn 1/3/2003
164. Behind A Wall 1/3/2003
165. From One Who Stays 1/3/2003
166. The Crescent Moon 1/3/2003
167. Interlude 1/3/2003
168. Absence 4/16/2010
169. To An Early Daffodil 1/3/2003
170. In Excelsis 1/3/2003
171. A Coloured Print By Shokei 1/3/2003
172. Autumn 1/3/2003
173. New York At Night 1/3/2003
174. Listening 1/3/2003
175. At Night 1/3/2003
176. The End 1/3/2003
177. The Fruit Garden Path 1/3/2003
178. A Gift 4/16/2010
179. Astigmatism 1/20/2003
180. Opal 1/13/2003
181. Apples Of Hesperides 1/3/2003
182. Dreams 1/3/2003
183. The Wind 1/3/2003
184. A Fixed Idea 1/3/2003
185. Aubade 1/3/2003
186. The Taxi 1/3/2003
187. The Letter 1/13/2003
188. A Winter Ride 1/3/2003
189. The Garden By Moonlight 1/3/2003
190. Apology 1/4/2003
191. Petals 1/3/2003
192. Decade 1/3/2003
193. A London Thoroughfare. 2 A.M. 1/20/2003
194. To A Friend 1/3/2003
195. A Fairy Tale 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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  • 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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