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Amy Lowell

When you came, you were like red wine and honey, And the taste of you burnt my mouth with its sweetness. Now you are like morning bread, Smooth and pleasant. I hardly taste you at all for I know your savour, But I am completely nourished. — Amy Lowell, “Decade,” The Oxford Book of American Poetry.… Continue reading Amy Lowell

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Amy Lowell

Twenty-Four Hokku On A Modern Theme I   Again the larkspur,   Heavenly blue in my garden.   They, at least, unchanged.         II   How have I hurt you?   You look at me with pale eyes,   But these are my tears.         III   Morning and evening–   Yet for us once… Continue reading Amy Lowell

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American Culture · American Literature · Anthology · Classic · Collection · Imagism · Modernism · Poetry

Amy Lowell

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          … Continue reading Amy Lowell

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American Culture · American Literature · Classic · Collection · Imagism · Modernism · Poetry

Amy Lowell

In the cloud-grey mornings I heard the herons flying; And when I came into my garden, My silken outer-garment Trailed over withered leaves. A dried leaf crumbles at a touch, But I have seen many Autumns With herons blowing like smoke Across the sky. —Amy Lowell, “Hoar-Frost,” Pictures of the Floating World, (The Macmillan Company,… Continue reading Amy Lowell

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