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Amy Lowell, longing, in English Clear filters

RomanticAmy Lowell

Wakefulness

Jolt of market-carts ; Steady drip of horses' hoofs on hard pavement ; A black sky lacquered over with blueness, And the lights of Battersea Bridge Pricking pale in the dawn. The beautiful hours are passing And still you sleep ! Tired heart of my joy. Incurved upon your dreams. Will the day come before you have opened to me ?
RomanticAmy Lowell

In a Garden

Gushing from the mouths of stone men To spread at ease under the sky In granite-lipped basins, Where iris dabble their feet And rustle to a passing wind, The water fills the garden with its rushing, In the midst of the quiet of close-clipped lawns. Damp smell the ferns in tunnels of stone, Where trickle and plash the fountains, Marble fountains, yellowed with much water. Splashing down moss-tarnished steps It falls, the water; And the air is throbbing with it. With its gurgling and running. With its leaping, and deep, cool murmur. And I wished for night and you.
SadAmy Lowell

The Taxi

When I go away from you The world beats dead Like a slackened drum. I call out for you against the jutted stars And shout into the ridges of the wind. Streets coming fast, One after the other, Wedge you away from me, And the lamps of the city prick my eyes So that I can no longer see your face. Why should I leave you, To wound myself upon the sharp edges of the night?
RomanticAmy Lowell

Anticipation

I have been temperate always, But I am like to be very drunk With your coming. There have been times I feared to walk down the street Lest I should reel with the wine of you, And jerk against my neighbours As they go by. I am parched now, and my tongue is horrible in my mouth, But my brain is noisy With the clash and gurgle of filling wine-cups.
RomanticAmy Lowell

The Letter

Little cramped words scrawling all over the paper Like draggled fly's legs, What can you tell of the flaring moon Through the oak leaves ? Or of my uncurtained window and the bare floor Spattered with moonlight ? Your silly quirks and twists have nothing in them Of blossoming hawthorns. And this paper is dull, crisp, smooth, virgin of loveliness Beneath my hand. I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against The want of you ; Of squeezing it into little inkdrops, And posting it. And I scald alone, here, under the fire Of the great moon.
AnxiousAmy Lowell

Vernal Equinox

The scent of hyacinths, like a pale mist, lies between me and my book ; And the South Wind, washing through the room, Makes the candles quiver. My nerves sting at a spatter of rain on the shutter. And I am uneasy with the thrusting of green shoots Outside, in the night. Why are you not here to overpower me with your tense and urgent love ?
DreamyAmy Lowell

Spring Longing

The South wind blows open the folds of my dress. My feet leave wet tracks in the earth of my garden. The willows along the canal sing with new leaves turned upon the wind. I walk along the tow-path Gazing at the level water. Should I see a ribbed edge Running upon its clearness, I should know that this was caused By the prow of the boat In which you are to return.
DreamyAmy Lowell

Reflections

When I looked into your eyes, I saw a garden With peonies, and tinkling pagodas. And round-arched bridges Over still lakes. A woman sat beside the water In a rain-blue, silken garment. She reached through the water To pluck the crimson peonies Beneath the surface. But as she grasped the stems, They jarred and broke into white-green ripples And as she drew out her hand. The water-drops dripping from it Stained her rain-blue dress like tears.
DreamyAmy Lowell

Frosty Evening

It is not the bright light in your window Which dazzles my eyes ; It is the dim outline of your shadow Moving upon the shoji.
DreamyAmy Lowell

Road to the Yoshiwara

Coming to you along the Nihon Embankment, Suddenly the road was darkened By a flock of wild geese Crossing the moon.

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