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.
Amy LowellOn the neck of the young man sparkles no gem so gracious as enterprise. Youth condemns; maturity condones.
Amy LowellDon’t ask a writer what he’s working on. It’s like asking someone with cancer on the progress of his disease.
Amy LowellI do not suppose that anyone not a poet can realize the agony of creating a poem. Every nerve, even every muscle, seems strained to the breaking point. The poem will not be denied; to refuse to write it would be a greater torture. It tears its way out of the brain, splintering and breaking its passage, and leaves that organ in the state of a jelly-fish when the task is done.
Amy Lowell