Amy+Lowell

Hailey M.

= = = **__Amy Lowell__** =

Amy Lowell was born in Brookline, Massachusetts. Amy's family was Episcopalian. Amy was born into high class. Amy was the youngest of 5 children. From young age Amy was tutored at home and then as growing older entered into a private school, in Boston. While in private school she went on a few trips to Europe with her family. At 17, Amy dropped out of public school to help her elderly parents, but she did enter herself into a 7,000 book library to study literature. Amy was encouraged to write from an early age.

In 1887, Amy, her mother and sister wrote and got published the book Dream Drops or Stories from Fairy Land by a Dreamer. In 1910, Amy had written and gotten published the poem Fixed Ideas. After Amy's first poem was published, she had a few more published in a couple different journals. In 1912, Amy wrote and got published A Dome of Many Colored Glass, her first collection.


 * A Few Poems Written by Amy: **

__Sea Shell__
Sea Shell, Sea Shell, Sing me a song, O Please! A song of ships, and sailor men, And parrots, and tropical trees, Of islands lost in the Spanish Main Which no man ever may find again, Of fishes and corals under the waves, And seahorses stabled in great green caves. Sea Shell, Sea Shell, Sing of the things you know so well.

__Petal__
Life is a stream On which we strew Petal by petal the flower of our heart; The end lost in dream, They float past our view, We only watch their glad, early start. Freighted with hope, Crimsoned with joy, We scatter the leaves of our opening rose; Their widening scope, Their distant employ, We never shall know. And the stream as it flows Sweeps them away, Each one is gone Ever beyond into infinite ways. We alone stay While years hurry on, The flower fared forth, though its fragrance still stays.

__ Behind A Wall __
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.