American poet (1874-1925)
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:
Illusions beating with their baffled wings
Against the walls of circumstance.
AMY LOWELL
"Frankincense and Myrrh", A Dome of Many-coloured Glass
Beneath this sod lie the remains
Of one who died of growing pains.
AMY LOWELL
"Epitaph of a Young Poet Who Died Before Having Achieved Success", Sword Blades and Poppy Seeds
Hate is ravening vulture beaks descending on a place of skulls.
AMY LOWELL
"The Revenge", The New Republic, July 12, 1922
Poets are always the advance guard of literature; the advance guard of life. It is for this reason that their recognition comes so slowly.
AMY LOWELL
preface, Tendencies in Modern Poetry