Amy Lowell

Amy Lowell

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Amy Lawrence Lowell (February 9, 1874 – May 12, 1925) was an American poet of the imagist school, which was promoting a return to classical values. She posthumously won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1926.
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Little cramped words scrawling all over   the
Like draggled fly's legs,
What can you tell of the flaring
Through the oak leaves
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When I have baked white cakes And grated green almonds to spread on them;
When I have picked the green crowns from the strawberries And piled them, cone-pointed, in a blue and yellow platter;
When I have smoothed the seam of the linen I ...
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Glinting golden through the trees, Apples of Hesperides
Through the moon-pierced warp of night Shoot pale shafts of yellow light,
Swaying to the kissing breeze Swings the treasure, golden-gleaming, Apples of Hesperides
Far and lofty...
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What instinct forces man to journey on, Urged by a longing blind but dominant
Nothing he sees can hold him, nothing daunt His never failing eagerness
The sun Setting in splendour every night has won His vassalage; those towers flamboyant...
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A near horizon whose sharp jags Cut brutally into a sky Of leaden heaviness, and crags Of houses lift their masonry Ugly and foul, and chimneys lie And snort, outlined against the gray Of lowhung cloud
I hear the sigh The goaded city gives, n...
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A face seen passing in a crowded street, A voice heard singing music, large and free; And from that moment life is changed, and we Become of more heroic temper, meet To freely ask and give, a man complete Radiant because of faith, we dare to be Wh...
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"Hullo,
Alice
""Hullo,
Leon
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April had covered the hills With flickering yellows and reds,
The sparkle and coolness of snow Was blown from the mountain beds
Across a deep-sunken stream The pink of blossoming trees,
And from windless appleblooms The humming of m...
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The rain gullies the garden
And tinkles on the broad sides of grass blades
A tree, at the end of my arm, is hazy with mist
Even so,
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They brought me a quilled, yellow dahlia,
Opulent, flaunting
Round gold Flung out of a pale green stalk
Round, ripe gold Of maturity,
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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,
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My corn is green with red tassels,
I am praying to the lightning to ripen my corn,
I am praying to the thunder which carries the lightning
Corn is sweet where lightning has fallen
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You are ice and fire,
The touch of you burns my hands like snow
You are cold and flame
You are the crimson of amaryllis,
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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
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The Emperor's
CE, in the sultry heat of midsummer,
An Emperor caused the miniature mountains in his
To be covered with white silk,
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The snow whispers around me And my wooden clogs Leave holes behind me in the snow
But no one will pass this way Seeking my footsteps,
And when the temple bell rings again They will be covered and gone
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