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7 Works of Amy Lowell

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Prime

Story type: Poetry

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Your voice is like bells over roofs at dawnWhen a bird fliesAnd the sky changes to a fresher color. Speak, speak, Beloved.Say little thingsFor my ears to catchAnd run with them to my heart.

The Swans

Story type: Poetry

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The swans float and floatAlong the moatAround the Bishop’s garden,And the white clouds pushAcross a blue skyWith edges that seem to draw in and harden. Two slim men of white bronzeBeat each with a hammer on the end of a rodThe hours of God.Striking a bell,They do it well.And the echoes jump, and tinkle, and […]

Lilacs

Story type: Poetry

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Lilacs,False blue,White,Purple,Color of lilac,Your great puffs of flowersAre everywhere in this my New England.Among your heart-shaped leavesOrange orioles hop like music-box birds and singTheir little weak soft songs;In the crooks of your branchesThe bright eyes of song sparrows sitting on spotted eggsPeer restlessly through the light and shadowOf all Springs.Lilacs in dooryardsHolding quiet conversations with […]

“Here we go round the ivy-bush,”And that’s a tune we all dance to.Little poet people snatching ivy,Trying to prevent one another from snatching ivy.If you get a leaf, there’s another for me;Look at the bush.But I want your leaf, Brother, and you mine,Therefore, of course, we push. “Here we go round the laurel-tree.”Do we want […]

I Again the larkspur,Heavenly blue in my garden.They, at least, unchanged. II How have I hurt you?You look at me with pale eyes,But these are my tears. III Morning and evening–Yet for us once long agoWas no division. IV I hear many words.Set an hour when I may comeOr remain silent. V In the ghostly […]

In Excelsis

Story type: Poetry

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You–you–Your shadow is sunlight on a plate of silver;Your footsteps, the seeding-place of lilies;Your hands moving, a chime of bells across a windless air. The movement of your hands is the long, golden running of light from a rising sun;It is the hopping of birds upon a garden-path. As the perfume of jonquils, you come […]

Vespers

Story type: Poetry

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Last night, at sunset,The foxgloves were like tall altar candles.Could I have lifted you to the roof of the greenhouse, my Dear,I should have understood their burning.