All Poems

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To John Keats

© Amy Lowell

Great master! Boyish, sympathetic man!
Whose orbed and ripened genius lightly hung
From life's slim, twisted tendril and there swung
In crimson-sphered completeness; guardian

Frankincense and Myrrh

© Amy Lowell

My heart is tuned to sorrow, and the strings
Vibrate most readily to minor chords,
Searching and sad; my mind is stuffed with words
Which voice the passion and the ache of things:

Hora Stellatrix

© Amy Lowell

The stars hang thick in the apple tree,
The south wind smells of the pungent sea,
Gold tulip cups are heavy with dew.
The night's for you, Sweetheart, for you!

On Carpaccio's Picture: The Dream of St. Ursula

© Amy Lowell

Swept, clean, and still, across the polished floor
From some unshuttered casement, hid from sight,
The level sunshine slants, its greater light
Quenching the little lamp which pallid, poor,

The Tree of Scarlet Berries

© Amy Lowell

The rain gullies the garden paths
And tinkles on the broad sides of grass blades.
A tree, at the end of my arm, is hazy with mist.
Even so, I can see that it has red berries,

Malmaison

© Amy Lowell

I
How the slates of the roof sparkle in the sun,
over there, over there,
beyond the high wall! How quietly the Seine runs in loops

Fringed Gentians

© Amy Lowell

Near where I live there is a lake
As blue as blue can be, winds make
It dance as they go blowing by.
I think it curtseys to the sky.

Stravinsky's Three Pieces

© Amy Lowell

First Movement
Thin-voiced, nasal pipes
Drawing sound out and out
Until it is a screeching thread,

The Boston Athenaeum

© Amy Lowell

Thou dear and well-loved haunt of happy hours,
How often in some distant gallery,
Gained by a little painful spiral stair,
Far from the halls and corridors where throng

Sunshine through a Cobwebbed Window

© Amy Lowell

What charm is yours, you faded old-world tapestries,
Of outworn, childish mysteries,
Vague pageants woven on a web of dream!
And we, pushing and fighting in the turbid stream

To Elizabeth Ward Perkins

© Amy Lowell

Dear Bessie, would my tired rhyme
Had force to rise from apathy,
And shaking off its lethargy
Ring word-tones like a Christmas chime.

Peter watches her, fluid with fatigue, floating, and drifting,
and undulant in the orange glow. His senses flow towards
her,
where she lies supine and dreaming. Seeming drowned in
a golden halo.
The pungent smell of the geraniums is hard to bear.

The Great Adventure of Max Breuck

© Amy Lowell

1
A yellow band of light upon the street
Pours from an open door, and makes a wide
Pathway of bright gold across a sheet

The Pike

© Amy Lowell

In the brown water,
Thick and silver-sheened in the sunshine,
Liquid and cool in the shade of the reeds,
A pike dozed.

The Pleiades

© Amy Lowell

By day you cannot see the sky
For it is up so very high.
You look and look, but it's so blue
That you can never see right through.

Reaping

© Amy Lowell

You want to know what's the matter with me, do yer?
My! ain't men blinder'n moles?
It ain't nothin' new, be sure o' that.
Why, ef you'd had eyes you'd ha' seed

Aubade

© Amy Lowell

As I would free the white almond from the green husk
So would I strip your trappings off,
Beloved.
And fingering the smooth and polished kernel
I should see that in my hands glittered a gem beyond counting.

A London Thoroughfare. 2 A.M

© Amy Lowell

They have watered the street,
It shines in the glare of lamps,
Cold, white lamps,
And lies

Afternoon Rain in State Street

© Amy Lowell

Cross-hatchings of rain against grey walls,
Slant lines of black rain
In front of the up and down, wet stone sides of buildings.
Below,

The Road to Avignon

© Amy Lowell

A Minstrel stands on a marble stair,
Blown by the bright wind, debonair;
Below lies the sea, a sapphire floor,
Above on the terrace a turret door