American poet (1874-1925)
Then I see you,
Standing under a spire of pale blue larkspur,
With a basket of roses on your arm.
You are cool, like silver,
And you smile.
I think the Canterbury bells are playing little tunes.
AMY LOWELL
"Madonna of the Evening Flowers", Pictures of the Floating World
Witches are moon-birds,
Witches are the women of the false, beautiful moon.
AMY LOWELL
"Witch-Woman"
Hate is ravening vulture beaks descending on a place of skulls.
AMY LOWELL
"The Revenge", The New Republic, July 12, 1922
Taking us by and large, we're a queer lot
We women who write poetry. And when you think
How few of us there've been, it's queerer still.
I wonder what it is that makes us do it,
Singles us out to scribble down, man-wise,
The fragments of ourselves.
AMY LOWELL
"The Sisters"