Be inspired by these Amy Lowell poems. Amy was an American poet, born on February 9, 1874, in Brookline, Massachusetts, United States. In 1926 she posthumously won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry. She died on May 12, 1925 however, her poetry lives on today.
To quote John Farrar, he said the following about Amy Lowell:
" Amy Lowell has yet been a vigorous and brilliant experimenter in verse technique, and one of the strongest influences in molding the work of the younger poets of America. Whether she is writing a book on John Keats, a critique of modem poetry, a racing poetical legend of Indian or New Englander, or a delicate translation from the Chinese, she is whole-hearted about it.
A startling person is Miss Lowell. I have heard her speak many times, yet she never fails to interest and often electrify her audiences. As a conversationalist, seated in her own rooms, among a small group, she will talk and listen half or all of the night, and her talk reminds one that the art of conversation is not entirely lost in America.
The cause of poetry as she sees it means more to her, I believe, than any other one thing, and though ill health often makes traveling difficult for her, she moves constantly from one end of the country to another, interesting audiences in new tendencies and old in modern poetry. I can think of no other single figure among contemporary American writers so vivid in manner, so clear in purpose and so consistent in achievement."
Popular Amy Lowell Short Poems:
Poet: Amy Lowell
'Tis you that are the music, not your song.
The song is but a door which, opening wide.
Lets forth the pent-up melody inside.
Your spirit's harmony, which clear and strong
Sings but of you. Throughout your whole life long
Your songs, your thoughts, your doings, each divide
This perfect beauty; waves within a tide.
Or single notes amid a glorious throng.
The song of earth has many different chords;
Ocean has many moods and many tones
Yet always ocean. In the damp Spring woods
The painted trillium smiles, while crisp pine cones
Autumn alone can ripen. So is this
One music with a thousand cadences.
As one who sails upon a wide, blue sea
Far out of sight of land, his mind intent
Upon the sailing of his little boat.
On tightening ropes and shaping fair his course.
Hears suddenly, across the restless sea.
The rhythmic striking of some towered clock.
And wakes from thoughtless idleness to time:
Time, the slow pulse which beats eternity!
So through the vacancy of busy life
At intervals you cross my path and bring
The deep solemnity of passing years.
For you I have shed bitter tears, for you
I have relinquished that for which my heart
Cried out in selfish longing. And to-night
Having just left you, I can say: "'Tis well.
Thank God that I have known a soul so true.
So nobly just, so worthy to be loved!"
I ask but one thing of you, only one.
That always you will be my dream of you;
That never shall I wake to find untrue
All this I have believed and rested on.
Forever vanished, like a vision gone
Out into the night. Alas, how few
There are who strike in us a chord we knew
Existed, but so seldom heard its tone
We tremble at the half-forgotten sound.
The world is full of rude awakenings
And heaven-born castles shattered to the ground.
Yet still our human longing vainly clings
To a belief in beauty through all wrongs.
O stay your hand, and leave my heart its songs!
A little garden on a bleak hillside
Where deep the heavy, dazzling mountain snow
Lies far into the spring. The sun's pale glow
Is scarcely able to melt patches wide
About the single rose bush. All denied
Of nature's tender ministries. But no, -
For wonder-working faith has made it blow
With flowers many hued and starry-eyed.
Here sleeps the sun long, idle summer hours;
Here butterflies and bees fare far to rove
Amid the crumpled leaves of poppy flowers;
Here four o'clocks, to the passionate night above
Fling whiffs of perfume, like pale incense showers.
A little garden, loved with a great love!
When you, my Dear, are away, away,
How wearily goes the creeping day.
A year drags after morning, and night
Starts another year of candle light.
O Pausing Sun and Lingering Moon!
Grant me, I beg of you, this boon.
Whirl round the earth as never sun
Has his diurnal journey run.
And, Moon, slip past the ladders of air
In a single flash, while your streaming hair
Catches the stars and pulls them down
To shine on some slumbering Chinese town.
O Kindly Sun! Understanding Moon!
Bring evening to crowd the footsteps of noon.
But when that long awaited day
Hangs ripe in the heavens, your voyaging stay.
Be morning, O Sun! with the lark in song,
Be afternoon for ages long.
And, Moon, let you and your lesser lights
Watch over a century of nights.
Who shall declare the joy of the running!
Who shall tell of the pleasures of flight!'
Springing and spuming the tufts of wild heather.
Swelling, wide-winged, through the blue dome of light.
Everything mortal has moments immortal,
Swift and God-gifted, immeasurably bright.
So with the stretch of the white road before me,
Shining snow crystals rainbowed by the sun.
Fields that are white, stained with long, cool, blue shadows.
Strong with the strength of my horse as we run.
Joy in the touch of the wind and the sunlight!
Joy! With the vigorous earth I am one.