Amy+Lowell

Kate Amy Lowell (1874- 1925)  Amy Lowell was born in Brookline, Massachusetts in 1874. She grew up in a wealthy, very accomplished family, her father being a business man, and her mother a musician. Being the daughter in a wealthy family, Amy was first schooled at home, where she wrote her first poem at the age of nine. This poem was called "Chicago".  Later, Lowell's education ended in 1891, but she carried on teaching herself with the thousands of books in her fathers library. In October of 1902 she became an official poet. In 1910 four of her poems were accepted and put in the Atlantic monthly. By 1912 she had her first poetry book published it was called, the Dome of Many-Colored Glass, and her second book was published in 1914 by the name of Sword Blades and Poppy Seeds. In 1925 she was awarded the Pulitzer Prize. Later that year, she passed away in Brookline, Massachusetts.

Summer

Some men there are who find in nature all Their inspiration, hers the sympathy Which spurs them on to any great endeavor, To them the fields and woods are closest friends, And they hold dear communion with the hills; The voice of waters soothes them with its fall, And the great winds bring healing in their sound. To them a city is a prison house Where pent up human forces labour and strive, Where beauty dwells not, driven forth by man; But where in winter they must live until Summer gives back the spaces of the hills. To me it is not so. I love the earth And all the gifts of her so lavish hand: Sunshine and flowers, rivers and rushing winds, Thick branches swaying in a winter storm, And moonlight playing in a boat's wide wake; But more than these, and much, ah, how much more, I love the very human heart of man. Above me spreads the hot, blue mid-day sky, Far down the hillside lies the sleeping lake Lazily reflecting back the sun, And scarcely ruffled by the little breeze Which wanders idly through the nodding ferns. 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 me alone it is a time of pause, A void and silent space between two worlds, When inspiration lags, and feeling sleeps, Gathering strength for efforts yet to come. For life alone is creator of life, And closest contact with the human world Is like a lantern shining in the night To light me to a knowledge of myself. 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!

Dreams

I do not care to talk to you although Your speech evokes a thousand sympathies, And all my being's silent harmonies Wake trembling into music. When you go It is as if some sudden, dreadful blow Had severed all the strings with savage ease. No, do not talk; but let us rather seize This intimate gift of silence which we know. Others may guess your thoughts from what you say, As storms are guessed from clouds where darkness broods. To me the very essence of the day Reveals its inner purpose and its moods; As poplars feel the rain and then straightway Reverse their leaves and shimmer through the woods.

The End

Throughout the echoing chambers of my brain I hear your words in mournful cadence toll Like some slow passing-bell which warns the soul Of sundering darkness. Unrelenting, fain To batter down resistance, fall again Stroke after stroke, insistent diastole, The bitter blows of truth, until the whole Is hammered into fact made strangely plain. Where shall I look for comfort? Not to you. Our worlds are drawn apart, our spirit's suns Divided, and the light of mine burnt dim. Now in the haunted twilight I must do Your will. I grasp the cup which over-runs, And with my trembling lips I touch the rim.