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| Amy Lowell
A man must be sacrificed now and again to provide for the next generation of men.A wise man,
Watching the stars pass across the sky,
Remarked:
In the upper air the fireflies move more slowly.All books are either dreams or swords,
You can cut, or you can drug, with words.
. . . .
My swords are tempered for every speech,
For fencing wit, or to carve a breach
Through old abuses the world condones.All books are either dreams or swords.All books are either dreams or swords.Art is the desire of a man to express himself, to record the reactions of his personality to the world he lives in. Even Pain pricks to livelier living.Every castle of the air
Sleeps in the fine black grains, and there
Are seeds for every romance, or light
Whiff of a dream for a summer night.For books are more than books, they are the life, the very heart and core of ages past, the reason why men worked and died, the essence and quintessence of their lives.Guarded within the old red wall's embrace,
Marshalled like soldiers in gay company,
The tulips stand arrayed. Here infantry
Wheels out into the sunlight.Happiness, to some elation;
Is to others, mere stagnation.Happiness: We rarely feel it. I would buy it, beg it, steal it, Pay in coins of dripping blood For this one transcendent good.Hate is ravening vulture beaks descending on a place of skulls. Heart-leaves of lilac all over New England,
Roots of lilac under all the soil of New England,
Lilac in me because I am New England.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.
I too am a rare
Pattern. As I wander down
The garden paths.Let the key guns be mounted, make a brave show of waging war, and pry off the lid of Pandora's Box once more. Moon! Moon! am prone before you. Pity me, and drench me in loneliness.My words are little jars
For you to take and put upon a shelf.
Their shaped are quaint and beautiful,
And they have many pleasant colours and lustres
To recommend them.
Also the scent from them fills the room
With sweetness of flowers and crushed grasses.Soft-heartedness, in times like these,
Shows sof'ness in the upper story!Take everything easy and quit dreaming and brooding and you will be well guarded from a thousand evils. There are few things so futile, and few so amusing, As a peaceful and purposeless sort of perusing of old random jottings set down in a blank book you've unearthed from a drawer as you looked for your bank book. Time! Joyless emblem of the greed of millions, robber of the best which earth can give.Visions for those too tired to sleep,
These seeds cast a film over eyes which weep.You are beautiful and faded
Like an old opera tune
Played upon a harpsichord.Youth condemns; maturity condones. |
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