Amy Lowell

Poet

1874-02-09 – 1925-05-12

Amy Lowell was an American poet and critic associated with the Imagist movement in modern poetry. She received the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry posthumously.

Quotes by Amy Lowell

Don't ask a writer what he's working on. It's like asking someone with cancer on the progress of his disease.
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Christ! What are patterns for?
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All books are either dreams or swords,You can cut, or you can drug, with words.
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The inkstand is full of ink, and the paper lies white and unspotted, in the round of light thrown by a candle. Puffs of darkness sweep into the corners, and keep rolling through the room behind his chair. The air is silver and pearl, for the night is liquid with moonlight.See how the roof glitters, like ice!Over there, a slice of yellow cuts into the silver-blue, and beside it stand two geraniums, purple because the light is silver-blue, to-night.
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You are ice and fire The touch of you burns my hands like snow
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A black cat among roses,phlox, lilac-misted under a quarter moon,the sweet smells of heliotrope and night-scented stock. The garden is very still.It is dazed with moonlight,contented with perfume...
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I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart againstThe want of you;Of squeezing it into little inkdrops,And posting it.
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For books are more than books, they are the lifeThe very heart and core of ages past,The reason why men lived and worked and died,The essence and quintessence of their lives.
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A black cat among roses,phlox, lilac-misted under a quarter moon,the sweet smells of heliotrope and night-scented stock. The garden is very still.It is dazed with moonlight,contented with perfume...
Read quote
For books are more than books, they are the lifeThe very heart and core of ages past,The reason why men lived and worked and died,The essence and quintessence of their lives.
Read quote
All books are either dreams or swords,You can cut, or you can drug, with words.
Read quote
Don't ask a writer what he's working on. It's like asking someone with cancer on the progress of his disease.
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The inkstand is full of ink, and the paper lies white and unspotted, in the round of light thrown by a candle. Puffs of darkness sweep into the corners, and keep rolling through the room behind his chair. The air is silver and pearl, for the night is liquid with moonlight.See how the roof glitters, like ice!Over there, a slice of yellow cuts into the silver-blue, and beside it stand two geraniums, purple because the light is silver-blue, to-night.
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I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart againstThe want of you;Of squeezing it into little inkdrops,And posting it.
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Christ! What are patterns for?
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You are ice and fire The touch of you burns my hands like snow
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You are ice and fire the touch of you burns my hands like snow.
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Happiness, to some, elation; Is, to others, mere stagnation.
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Hate is ravening vulture beaks descending on a place of skulls.
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Art is the desire of a man to express himself, to record the reactions of his personality to the world he lives in.
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