Fragment

Amy Lowell

What is poetry?  Is it a mosaic
 Of coloured stones which curiously are wrought
 Into a pattern?  Rather glass that’s taught
By patient labor any hue to take
And glowing with a sumptuous splendor, make
 Beauty a thing of awe; where sunbeams caught,
 Transmuted fall in sheafs of rainbows fraught
With storied meaning for religion’s sake.

Next 10 Poems

• Amy Lowell : Francis Ii, King Of Naples
• Amy Lowell : Frankincense And Myrrh
• Amy Lowell : Fringed Gentians
• Amy Lowell : From One Who Stays
• Amy Lowell : Game
• Amy Lowell : Garden Games
• Amy Lowell : Happiness
• Amy Lowell : Hero-worship
• Amy Lowell : Hoops
• Amy Lowell : Hora Stellatrix

Previous 10 Poems

• Amy Lowell : Fool's Money Bags
• Amy Lowell : Fish
• Amy Lowell : Fatigue
• Amy Lowell : Epitaph Of A Young Poet Who Died Before Having Achieved Success
• Amy Lowell : Epitaph In A Church-yard In Charleston, South Carolina
• Amy Lowell : Eleven O'clock
• Amy Lowell : Dreams
• Amy Lowell : Drawing-room
• Amy Lowell : Diya [original Title Is Greek, Delta-iota-psi-alpha]
• Amy Lowell : Crowned