Amy Lowell

Don__ ask a writer what he__ working on. It__ like asking someone with cancer on the progress of his disease.

Christ! What are patterns for?

All books are either dreams or swords.

All books are either dreams or swords,You can cut, or you can drug, with words.

Moon! Moon! I am prone before you. Pity me, and drench me in loneliness.

I am tired, beloved, of chafing my heart against the want of you; of squeezing it into little ink drops, and posting it. And I scald alone, here, under the fire of the great moon.

Art is the desire of a man to express himself, to record the reactions of his personality to the world he lives in.

Take everything easy and quit dreaming and brooding and you will be well guarded from a thousand evils.

Happiness to some is elation to others it is mere stagnation.

The inkstand is full of ink, and the paper lies white and unspotted, in the round of light thrown by a candle. Puffs of darkness sweep into the corners, and keep rolling through the room behind his chair. The air is silver and pearl, for the night is liquid with moonlight.See how the roof glitters, like ice!Over there, a slice of yellow cuts into the silver-blue, and beside it stand two geraniums, purple because the light is silver-blue, to-night.

A black cat among roses,phlox, lilac-misted under a quarter moon,the sweet smells of heliotrope and night-scented stock. The garden is very still.It is dazed with moonlight,contented with perfume...

For books are more than books, they are the lifeThe very heart and core of ages past,The reason why men lived and worked and died,The essence and quintessence of their lives.

You are ice and fire The touch of you burns my hands like snow

I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart againstThe want of you;Of squeezing it into little inkdrops,And posting it.