Amy Lowell Quotes (113 Quotes)

If you love me, marry me
Before the sun has dipped behind those trees.

Now a lick
Down the side of your face.

I cannot
feed my life on being a poet.

Ashes of roses,
ashes of youth.

My God, but you keep me starved!

Yes, kiss me, now don't talk.

His starved life had not fitted him for joy.

Even Pain pricks to livelier living.

Hate is ravening vulture beaks descending on a place of skulls.

This is the war of wars, and the cause?

You know I love yer,
An' I'll marry yer as soon
As I c'n raise the money.

Take everything easy and quit dreaming and brooding and you will be well guarded from a thousand evils.

Has your life too been waiting for this time,
Not only mine the sharpness of this joy?

My mother would
call me "whore",
and spit upon me; the priest would have me repent, and have
the rest of my life spent in a convent.

The loss so great his life could never heal.

I got so I was scared o' th' trees.

Let the key guns be mounted, make a brave show of waging war, and pry off the lid of Pandora's Box once more

No one can discover
If it's his money.

A man must be sacrificed now and again to provide for the next generation of men.

Oh, my God, what shall I do!

I love the vivid life of winter months
In constant intercourse with human minds,
When every new experience is gain
And on all sides we feel the great world's heart;
The pulse and throb of life which makes us men!

The world is for the living.

Eggshell trays where gay beaux knelt,
Hand on heart, and daintily spelt
Their love in flowers, brittle and bright,
Artificial and fragile, which told aright
The vows of an eighteenth-century knight.

The inches of the theatre went for gold.

Surely the age of fear is gone.

Indeed,
Or you, or I, are mad.

One I love,
Two I love,
Three I love I say .

Hold up, you beast, now what the devil!

He is dead, my beautiful, strong man!

Do men find life so full of humour and joy
That for want of excitement they smash up the toy?

Life is what
Might best be conjured up by the word: 'Hell'.

Happiness, to some, elation; Is, to others, mere stagnation.

Sexual love is the most stupendous fact of the universe, and the most magical mystery our poor blind senses know.

I used to dread the Winters.

Throughout your whole life long
Your songs, your thoughts, your doings, each divide
This perfect beauty; waves within a tide,
Or single notes amid a glorious throng.

Thou yellow trumpeter of laggard Spring!

What could he do, the times were sad.

Time! Joyless emblem of the greed of millions, robber of the best which earth can give.

Ah, Dearest, you are good to love me so,
And yet I would not have it goodness, rather
Excess of selfishness in you to need
Me through and through, as flowers need the sun.

Ther ain't no work here Winters.

And my heart beats and labours.

The blue crest of the distant mountain, tops
The green crest of the hill on which I sit;
And it is summer, glorious, deep-toned summer,
The very crown of nature's changing year
When all her surging life is at its full.

To-day you worked, you thought, in vain.

You are ice and fire the touch of you burns my hands like snow.

A little garden, loved with a great love!

We look out each from a different world.

You are my world and I your citizen.

Let me swerve
You from your purpose.

Instead, take from me all my life!

Who shall declare the joy of the running!