King Arthur Movie Tristan

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.



-Amy Lowell






I've become a fan of Amy Lowell's. I think this poem is beautiful and sad all at once.


How wonderful is this line?

Your speech evokes a thousand sympathies


I googled the poet and apparently she was a socialite who liked to keep her hair in a bun and smoke cigars.






artwork by godward

I own a solace shut within my heart,

A garden full of many a quaint delight

And warm with drowsy, poppied sunshine; bright,

Flaming with lilies out of whose cups dart

Shining things

With powdered wings.



Here terrace sinks to terrace, arbors close

The ends of dreaming paths; a wanton wind

Jostles the half-ripe pears, and then, unkind,

Tumbles a-slumber in a pillar rose,

With content

Grown indolent.



By night my garden is o'erhung with gems

Fixed in an onyx setting. Fireflies

Flicker their lanterns in my dazzled eyes.

In serried rows I guess the straight, stiff stems

Of hollyhocks

Against the rocks.



So far and still it is that, listening,

I hear the flowers talking in the dawn;

And where a sunken basin cuts the lawn,

Cinctured with iris, pale and glistening,

The sudden swish

Of a waking fish.




-Amy Lowell

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.


-Amy Lowell

My cup is empty to-night,


Cold and dry are its sides,


Chilled by the wind from the open window.


Empty and void, it sparkles white in the moonlight.


The room is filled with the strange scent


Of wistaria blossoms.


They sway in the moon's radiance


And tap against the wall.


But the cup of my heart is still,


And cold, and empty.




When you come, it brims


Red and trembling with blood,


Heart's blood for your drinking;


To fill your mouth with love


And the bitter-sweet taste of a soul.





-Amy Lowell