Little hot apples of fire,Burst out of the flaming stemOf my heart,I do not understand how you quickened and grew.And you amaze meWbile I gather you. I lay you, one by one,Upon a table.And now you seem beautiful and strange to me,And I stand before you,Wondering. — Amy Lowell, from “Flame Apples,” Pictures of the… Continue reading Amy Lowell
Apples of Hesperides Glinting golden through the trees,Apples of Hesperides!Through the moon-pierced warp of nightShoot pale shafts of yellow light,Swaying to the kissing breezeSwings the treasure, golden-gleaming,Apples of Hesperides! Far and lofty yet they glimmer,Apples of Hesperides!Blinded by their radiant shimmer,Pushing forward just for these;Dew-besprinkled, bramble-marred,Poor duped mortal, travel-scarred,Always thinking soon to seizeAnd possess the… Continue reading Amy Lowell
Little hot apples of fire,Burst out of the flaming stemOf my heart,I do not understand how you quickened and grew.And you amaze meWbile I gather you. I lay you, one by one,Upon a table.And now you seem beautiful and strange to me,And I stand before you,Wondering. — Amy Lowell, from “Flame Apples,” Pictures of the… Continue reading Amy Lowell
In the cloud-grey morningsI heard the herons flying;And when I came into my garden,My silken outer-garmentTrailed over withered leaves.A dried leaf crumbles at a touch,But I have seen many AutumnsWith herons blowing like smokeAcross the sky. — Amy Lowell, “Hoar-Frost,” Pictures of the Floating World, (The Macmillan Company, 1919).
Vernal Equinox The scent of hyacinths, like a pale mist, lies between me and my book; And the South Wind, washing through the room, Makes the candles quiver. My nerves sting at a spatter of rain on the shutter, And I am uneasy with the thrusting of green shoots Outside, in the night. … Continue reading Amy Lowell
What is poetry? Is it a mosaicOf coloured stones which curiously are wroughtInto a pattern? Rather glass that’s taughtBy patient labor any hue to takeAnd glowing with a sumptuous splendor, makeBeauty a thing of awe; where sunbeams caught,Transmuted fall in sheafs of rainbows fraughtWith storied meaning for religion’s sake. — Amy Lowell, “Fragment,” A Dome… Continue reading Amy Lowell
Tell me,Was Venus more beautifulThan you are,When she toppedThe crinkled waves,Drifting shorewardOn her plaited shell?Was Botticelli’s visionFairer than mine;And were the painted rosebudsHe tossed his lady,Of better worthThan the words I blow about youTo cover your too great lovelinessAs with a gauzeOf misted silver? For me,You stand poisedIn the blue and buoyant air,Cinctured by bright… Continue reading Amy Lowell
My thoughtsChink against my ribsAnd roll about like silver hail-stones.I should like to spill them out,And pour them, all shining,Over you.But my heart is shut upon themAnd holds them straitly. Come, You! and open my heart;That my thoughts torment me no longer,But glitter in your hair. — Amy Lowell, “Bullion,” Imagist Poetry: An Anthology. Ed.… Continue reading Amy Lowell
Why do the lilies goggle their tongues at meWhen I pluck them;And writhe, and twist,And strangle themselves against my fingers,So that I can hardly weave the garlandFor your hair?Why do they shriek your nameAnd spit at meWhen I would cluster them?Must I kill themTo make them lie still,And send you a wreath of lolling corpsesTo… Continue reading Amy Lowell
Searching and sad; my mind is stuffed with wordsWhich voice the passion and the ache of things: — Amy Lowell, from “Frankincense and Myrrh,” A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass (Houghton Mifflin,1912)
The Vale of Soul-Making 