The Grocery,Amy Lowell Poems,Poet Amy Lowell’s literary reputation, marred in her lifetime due to her lifestyle and at times overbearing personality, has in recent years begun to improve as new generations of readers have rediscovered her work.

Born in 1874 in Brookline Massachusetts, Amy Lowell was the daughter of a prominent New England family, one that encouraged her love of reading and writing. She began writing poetry in 1902, inspired by seeing Eleonora Duse, one of the most beloved actresses of her generation, on stage.

 

 

The Grocery by Amy Lowell

“Hullo, Alice!”
“Hullo, Leon!”
“Say, Alice, gi’ me a couple
O’ them two for five cigars,
Will yer?”
“Where’s your nickel?”
“My! Ain’t you close!
Can’t trust a feller, can yer.”

“Trust you! Why
What you owe this store
Would set you up in business.

I can’t think why Father ‘lows it.”
“Yer Father’s a sight more neighbourly
Than you be. That’s a fact.

Besides, he knows I got a vote.”
“A vote! Oh, yes, you got a vote!
A lot o’ good the Senate’ll be to Father
When all his bank account
Has run away in credits.

There’s your cigars,
If you can relish smokin’
With all you owe us standin’.”
“I dunno as that makes ’em taste any diff’rent.

You ain’t fair to me, Alice, ‘deed you ain’t.
I work when anythin’s doin’.
I’ll get a carpenterin’ job next Summer sure.

Cleve was tellin’ me to-day he’d take me on come Spring.”
“Come Spring, and this December!
I’ve no patience with you, Leon,
Shilly-shallyin’ the way you do.

Here, lift over them crates o’ oranges
I wanter fix ’em in the winder.”
“It riles yer, don’t it, me not havin’ work.

You pepper up about it somethin’ good.

You pick an’ pick, and that don’t help a mite.

Say, Alice, do come in out o’ that winder.

Th’ oranges c’n wait,
An’ I don’t like talkin’ to yer back.”
“Don’t you! Well, you’d better make the best o’ what
you can git.

Maybe you won’t have my back to talk to soon.

They look good in pyramids with the ‘lectric light on ’em,
Don’t they?
Now hand me them bananas
An’ I’ll string ’em right acrost.”

“What do yer mean
‘Bout me not havin’ you to talk to?
Are yer springin’ somethin’ on me?”
“I don’t know ’bout springin’
When I’m tellin’ you right out.

I’m goin’ away, that’s all.”

“Where? Why?
What yer mean — goin’ away?”
“I’ve took a place
Down to Boston, in a candy store
For the holidays.”

“Good Land, Alice,
What in the Heavens fer!”
“To earn some money,
And to git away from here, I guess.”

“Ain’t yer Father got enough?
Don’t he give yer proper pocket-money?”
“He’d have a plenty, if you folks paid him.”

“He’s rich I tell yer.

I never figured he’d be close with you.”

“Oh, he ain’t. Not close.

That ain’t why.

But I must git away from here.
I must! I must!”
“You got a lot o’ reason in yer
To-night.

How long d’ you cal’late
You’ll be gone?”
“Maybe for always.”

“What ails yer, Alice?
Talkin’ wild like that.

Ain’t you an’ me goin’ to be married
Some day.”

“Some day! Some day!
I guess the sun’ll never rise on some day.”

“So that’s the trouble.

Same old story.

‘Cause I ain’t got the cash to settle right now.
You know I love yer,
An’ I’ll marry yer as soon
As I c’n raise the money.”

“You’ve said that any time these five year,
But you don’t do nothin’.”

“Wot could I do?
Ther ain’t no work here Winters.

Not fer a carpenter, ther ain’t.”
“I guess you warn’t born a carpenter.

Ther’s ice-cuttin’ a plenty.”

“I got a dret’ful tender throat;
Dr. Smiles he told me
I mustn’t resk ice-cuttin’.”

 

“Why haven’t you gone to Boston,
And hunted up a job?”
“Have yer forgot the time I went expressin’
In the American office, down ther?”
“And come back two weeks later!
No, I ain’t.”

“You didn’t want I should git hurted,
Did yer?
I’m a sight too light fer all that liftin’ work.
My back was commencin’ to strain, as ’twas.

Ef I was like yer brother now,
I’d ha’ be’n down to the city long ago.

But I’m too clumsy fer a dancer.

I ain’t got Arthur’s luck.”
“Do you call it luck to be a disgrace to your folks,
And git locked up in jail!”
“Oh, come now, Alice,
`Disgrace’ is a mite strong.

Why, the jail was a joke.

Art’s all right.”
“All right!
All right to dance, and smirk, and lie
For a livin’,
And then in the end
Lead a silly girl to give you
What warn’t hers to give
By pretendin’ you’d marry her —
And she a pupil.”

“He’d ha’ married her right enough,
Her folks was millionaires.”
“Yes, he’d ha’ married her!
Thank God, they saved her that.”

“Art’s a fine feller.

I wish I had his luck.

Swellin’ round in Hart, Schaffner & Marx fancy suits,
And eatin’ in rest’rants.

But somebody’s got to stick to the old place,
Else Foxfield’d have to shut up shop,
Hey, Alice?”
“You admire him!
You admire Arthur!
You’d be like him only you can’t dance.
Oh, Shame! Shame!
And I’ve been like that silly girl.

Fooled with your promises,
And I give you all I had.

I knew it, oh, I knew it,
But I wanted to git away ‘fore I proved it.
You’ve shamed me through and through.

Why couldn’t you hold your tongue,
And spared me seein’ you
As you really are.”
“What the Devil’s the row?
I only said Art was lucky.
What you spitfirin’ at me fer?
Ferget it, Alice.

We’ve had good times, ain’t we?
I’ll see Cleve ’bout that job agin to-morrer,
And we’ll be married ‘fore hayin’ time.”

“It’s like you to remind me o’ hayin’ time.

I’ve good cause to love it, ain’t I?
Many’s the night I’ve hid my face in the dark
To shut out thinkin’!”
“Why, that ain’t nothin’.

You ain’t be’n half so kind to me
As lots o’ fellers’ girls.
Gi’ me a kiss, Dear,
And let’s make up.”

“Make up!
You poor fool.

Do you suppose I care a ten cent piece
For you now.

You’ve killed yourself for me.
Done it out o’ your own mouth.
You’ve took away my home,
I hate the sight o’ the place.
You’re all over it,
Every stick an’ stone means you,
An’ I hate ’em all.”

“Alice, I say,
Don’t go on like that.
I can’t marry yer
Boardin’ in one room,
But I’ll see Cleve to-morrer,
I’ll make him —-”
“Oh, you fool!
You terrible fool!”
“Alice, don’t go yit,
Wait a minit,
I’ll see Cleve —-”
“You terrible fool!”
“Alice, don’t go.

Alice —-” (Door slams)

 

 

Teatro Bambino Dublin N H,Amy Lowell Poems,Poet Amy Lowell’s literary reputation, marred in her lifetime due to her lifestyle and at times overbearing personality, has in recent years begun to improve as new generations of readers have rediscovered her work.

Born in 1874 in Brookline Massachusetts, Amy Lowell was the daughter of a prominent New England family, one that encouraged her love of reading and writing. She began writing poetry in 1902, inspired by seeing Eleonora Duse, one of the most beloved actresses of her generation, on stage.

 

 

Teatro Bambino Dublin N H by Amy Lowell

How still it is! Sunshine itself here falls
In quiet shafts of light through the high trees
Which, arching, make a roof above the walls
Changing from sun to shadow as each breeze
Lingers a moment, charmed by the strange sight
Of an Italian theatre, storied, seer
Of vague romance, and time’s long history;
Where tiers of grass-grown seats sprinkled with white,
Sweet-scented clover, form a broken sphere
Grouped round the stage in hushed expectancy.

What sound is that which echoes through the wood?
Is it the reedy note of an oaten pipe?
Perchance a minute more will see the brood
Of the shaggy forest god, and on his lip
Will rest the rushes he is wont to play.

His train in woven baskets bear ripe fruit
And weave a dance with ropes of gray acorns,
So light their touch the grasses scarcely sway
As they the measure tread to the lilting flute.

Alas! ‘t is only Fancy thus adorns.

A cloud drifts idly over the shining sun.

 

 

How damp it seems, how silent, still, and strange!
Surely ‘t was here some tragedy was done,
And here the chorus sang each coming change?
Sure this is deep in some sweet, southern wood,
These are not pines, but cypress tall and dark;
That is no thrush which sings so rapturously,
But the nightingale in his most passionate mood
Bursting his little heart with anguish. Hark!
The tread of sandalled feet comes noiselessly.

The silence almost is a sound, and dreams
Take on the semblances of finite things;
So potent is the spell that what but seems
Elsewhere, is lifted here on Fancy’s wings.

The little woodland theatre seems to wait,
All tremulous with hope and wistful joy,
For something that is sure to come at last,
Some deep emotion, satisfying, great.

It grows a living presence, bold and shy,
Cradling the future in a glorious past.

 

 

Summer,Summer by Amy Lowell,Poet Amy Lowell’s literary reputation, marred in her lifetime due to her lifestyle and at times overbearing personality, has in recent years begun to improve as new generations of readers have rediscovered her work.

Born in 1874 in Brookline Massachusetts, Amy Lowell was the daughter of a prominent New England family, one that encouraged her love of reading and writing. She began writing poetry in 1902, inspired by seeing Eleonora Duse, one of the most beloved actresses of her generation, on stage.

 

 

Summer by Amy Lowell

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!

 

 

Suggested by the Cover of a Volume of Keats Poems,Amy Lowell Poems,Poet Amy Lowell’s literary reputation, marred in her lifetime due to her lifestyle and at times overbearing personality, has in recent years begun to improve as new generations of readers have rediscovered her work.

Born in 1874 in Brookline Massachusetts, Amy Lowell was the daughter of a prominent New England family, one that encouraged her love of reading and writing. She began writing poetry in 1902, inspired by seeing Eleonora Duse, one of the most beloved actresses of her generation, on stage.

 

 

Suggested by the Cover of a Volume of Keats’s Poems by Amy Lowell

Wild little bird, who chose thee for a sign
To put upon the cover of this book?
Who heard thee singing in the distance dim,
The vague, far greenness of the enshrouding wood,
When the damp freshness of the morning earth
Was full of pungent sweetness and thy song?Who followed over moss and twisted roots,
And pushed through the wet leaves of trailing vines
Where slanting sunbeams gleamed uncertainly,

While ever clearer came the dropping notes,
Until, at last, two widening trunks disclosed
Thee singing on a spray of branching beech,
Hidden, then seen; and always that same song
Of joyful sweetness, rapture incarnate,
Filled the hushed, rustling stillness of the wood?We do not know what bird thou art. Perhaps
That fairy bird, fabled in island tale,
Who never sings but once, and then his song
Is of such fearful beauty that he dies
From sheer exuberance of melody.

 

For this they took thee, little bird, for this
They captured thee, tilting among the leaves,
And stamped thee for a symbol on this book.

For it contains a song surpassing thine,
Richer, more sweet, more poignant. And the poet
Who felt this burning beauty, and whose heart
Was full of loveliest things, sang all he knew
A little while, and then he died; too frail
To bear this untamed, passionate burst of song.

 

 

 

Song by Amy Lowell,Poet Amy Lowell’s literary reputation, marred in her lifetime due to her lifestyle and at times overbearing personality, has in recent years begun to improve as new generations of readers have rediscovered her work.

Born in 1874 in Brookline Massachusetts, Amy Lowell was the daughter of a prominent New England family, one that encouraged her love of reading and writing. She began writing poetry in 1902, inspired by seeing Eleonora Duse, one of the most beloved actresses of her generation, on stage.

 

 

Song by Amy Lowell

Oh! To be a flower
Nodding in the sun,
Bending, then upspringing
As the breezes run;
Holding up
A scent-brimmed cup,
Full of summer’s fragrance to the summer sun.

Oh! To be a butterfly
Still, upon a flower,
Winking with its painted wings,
Happy in the hour.

Blossoms hold
Mines of gold
Deep within the farthest heart of each chaliced flower.

Oh! To be a cloud
Blowing through the blue,
Shadowing the mountains,
Rushing loudly through
Valleys deep
Where torrents keep
Always their plunging thunder and their misty arch of blue.

Oh! To be a wave
Splintering on the sand,
Drawing back, but leaving
Lingeringly the land.

Rainbow light
Flashes bright
Telling tales of coral caves half hid in yellow sand.

Soon they die, the flowers;
Insects live a day;
Clouds dissolve in showers;
Only waves at play
Last forever.

Shall endeavor
Make a sea of purpose mightier than we dream to-day?

 

 

 

Roads by Amy Lowell,Amy Lowell Poems,Poet Amy Lowell’s literary reputation, marred in her lifetime due to her lifestyle and at times overbearing personality, has in recent years begun to improve as new generations of readers have rediscovered her work.

Born in 1874 in Brookline Massachusetts, Amy Lowell was the daughter of a prominent New England family, one that encouraged her love of reading and writing. She began writing poetry in 1902, inspired by seeing Eleonora Duse, one of the most beloved actresses of her generation, on stage.

 

 

Roads by Amy Lowell

I know a country laced with roads,
They join the hills and they span the brooks,
They weave like a shuttle between broad fields,
And slide discreetly through hidden nooks.

They are canopied like a Persian dome
And carpeted with orient dyes.

They are myriad-voiced, and musical,
And scented with happiest memories.

O Winding roads that I know so well,
Every twist and turn, every hollow and hill!
They are set in my heart to a pulsing tune
Gay as a honey-bee humming in June.

‘T is the rhythmic beat of a horse’s feet
And the pattering paws of a sheep-dog bitch;
‘T is the creaking trees, and the singing breeze,
And the rustle of leaves in the road-side ditch.

A cow in a meadow shakes her bell
And the notes cut sharp through the autumn air,
Each chattering brook bears a fleet of leaves
Their cargo the rainbow, and just now where
The sun splashed bright on the road ahead
A startled rabbit quivered and fled.

O Uphill roads and roads that dip down!
You curl your sun-spattered length along,
And your march is beaten into a song
By the softly ringing hoofs of a horse
And the panting breath of the dogs I love.

The pageant of Autumn follows its course
And the blue sky of Autumn laughs above.

 

And the song and the country become as one,
I see it as music, I hear it as light;
Prismatic and shimmering, trembling to tone,
The land of desire, my soul’s delight.

And always it beats in my listening ears
With the gentle thud of a horse’s stride,
With the swift-falling steps of many dogs,
Following, following at my side.

O Roads that journey to fairyland!
Radiant highways whose vistas gleam,
Leading me on, under crimson leaves,
To the opaline gates of the Castles of Dream.

 

 

Patterns by Amy,Poet Amy Lowell’s literary reputation, marred in her lifetime due to her lifestyle and at times overbearing personality, has in recent years begun to improve as new generations of readers have rediscovered her work.

Born in 1874 in Brookline Massachusetts, Amy Lowell was the daughter of a prominent New England family, one that encouraged her love of reading and writing. She began writing poetry in 1902, inspired by seeing Eleonora Duse, one of the most beloved actresses of her generation, on stage.

 

 

Patterns by Amy Lowell

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.

With my powdered hair and jeweled fan,
I too am a rare
Pattern.

As I wander down
The garden-paths.

My dress is richly figured,
And the train
Makes a pink and silver stain
On the gravel, and the thrift
Of the borders.

Just a plate of current fashion,
Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes.
Not a softness anywhere about me,
Only whalebone and brocade.

And I sink on a seat in the shade
Of a lime tree. For my passion
Wars against the stiff brocade.

The daffodils and squills
Flutter in the breeze
As they please.

And I weep;
For the lime-tree is in blossom
And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom.

And the plashing of waterdrops
In the marble fountain
Comes down the garden-paths.

The dripping never stops.

Underneath my stiffened gown
Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin,
A basin in the midst of hedges grown
So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding,

But she guesses he is near,
And the sliding of the water
Seems the stroking of a dear
Hand upon her.

What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown!
I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground.

All the pink and silver crumpled up on the ground.

I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths,
And he would stumble after,
Bewildered by my laughter.

I should see the sun flashing from his sword-hilt and the
buckles on his shoes.

 

I would choose
To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths,
A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover.
Till he caught me in the shade,
And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he
clasped me,
Aching, melting, unafraid.

With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops,
And the plopping of the waterdrops,
All about us in the open afternoon–
I am very like to swoon
With the weight of this brocade,
For the sun sifts through the shade.

Underneath the fallen blossom
In my bosom,
Is a letter I have hid.

It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the
Duke.

“Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell
Died in action Thursday se’nnight.”

As I read it in the white, morning sunlight,
The letters squirmed like snakes.
“Any answer, Madam,” said my footman.
“No,” I told him.

“See that the messenger takes some refreshment.
No, no answer.”

And I walked into the garden,
Up and down the patterned paths,
In my stiff, correct brocade.

The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun,
Each one.
I stood upright too,
Held rigid to the pattern
By the stiffness of my gown.

Up and down I walked,
Up and down.

In a month he would have been my husband.

In a month, here, underneath this lime,
We would have broke the pattern;
He for me, and I for him,
He as Colonel, I as Lady,
On this shady seat.

He had a whim
That sunlight carried blessing.
And I answered, “It shall be as you have said.”
Now he is dead.

In Summer and in Winter I shall walk
Up and down
The patterned garden-paths
In my stiff, brocaded gown.

The squills and daffodils
Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow.
I shall go
Up and down
In my gown.

Gorgeously arrayed,
Boned and stayed.

And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace
By each button, hook, and lace.
For the man who should loose me is dead,
Fighting with the Duke in Flanders,
In a pattern called a war.

Christ! What are patterns for?

 

 

 

New York at Night,

Amy Lowell Poems,Poet Amy Lowell’s literary reputation, marred in her lifetime due to her lifestyle and at times overbearing personality, has in recent years begun to improve as new generations of readers have rediscovered her work.

Born in 1874 in Brookline Massachusetts, Amy Lowell was the daughter of a prominent New England family, one that encouraged her love of reading and writing. She began writing poetry in 1902, inspired by seeing Eleonora Duse, one of the most beloved actresses of her generation, on stage.

 

 

New York at Night by Amy Lowell

A near horizon whose sharp jags
Cut brutally into a sky
Of leaden heaviness, and crags
Of houses lift their masonry
Ugly and foul, and chimneys lie
And snort, outlined against the gray
Of lowhung cloud.

I hear the sigh
The goaded city gives, not day
Nor night can ease her heart, her anguished labours stay.Below, straight streets, monotonous,
From north and south, from east and west,
Stretch glittering; and luminous
Above, one tower tops the rest
And holds aloft man’s constant quest:
Time! Joyless emblem of the greed
Of millions, robber of the best
Which earth can give, the vulgar creed
Has seared upon the night its flaming ruthless screed.O Night! Whose soothing presence brings
The quiet shining of the stars.

O Night! Whose cloak of darkness clings
So intimately close that scars
Are hid from our own eyes.

Beggars
By day, our wealth is having night
To burn our souls before altars
Dim and tree-shadowed, where the light
Is shed from a young moon, mysteriously bright.Where art thou hiding, where thy peace?
This is the hour, but thou art not.

Will waking tumult never cease?
Hast thou thy votary forgot?
Nature forsakes this man-begot
And festering wilderness, and now
The long still hours are here, no jot
Of dear communing do I know;
Instead the glaring, man-filled city groans below!

 

 

 

Loon Point,Amy Lowell Poems,Poet Amy Lowell’s literary reputation, marred in her lifetime due to her lifestyle and at times overbearing personality, has in recent years begun to improve as new generations of readers have rediscovered her work.

Born in 1874 in Brookline Massachusetts, Amy Lowell was the daughter of a prominent New England family, one that encouraged her love of reading and writing. She began writing poetry in 1902, inspired by seeing Eleonora Duse, one of the most beloved actresses of her generation, on stage.

 

 

Loon Point by Amy Lowell

Softly the water ripples
Against the canoe’s curving side,
Softly the birch trees rustle
Flinging over us branches wide.Softly the moon glints and glistens
As the water takes and leaves,
Like golden ears of corn
Which fall from loose-bound sheaves,Or like the snow-white petals
Which drop from an overblown rose,
When Summer ripens to Autumn
And the freighted year must close.

From the shore come the scents of a garden,
And between a gap in the trees
A proud white statue glimmers
In cold, disdainful ease.

The child of a southern people,
The thought of an alien race,
What does she in this pale, northern garden,
How reconcile it with her grace?But the moon in her wayward beauty
Is ever and always the same,
As lovely as when upon Latmos
She watched till Endymion came.

 

 

Through the water the moon writes her legends
In light, on the smooth, wet sand;
They endure for a moment, and vanish,
And no one may understand.

All round us the secret of Nature
Is telling itself to our sight,
We may guess at her meaning but never
Can know the full mystery of night.

But her power of enchantment is on us,
We bow to the spell which she weaves,
Made up of the murmur of waves
And the manifold whisper of leaves.