Dreams poems

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On Carpaccio's Picture: The Dream of St. Ursula

© Amy Lowell

Swept, clean, and still, across the polished floor
From some unshuttered casement, hid from sight,
The level sunshine slants, its greater light
Quenching the little lamp which pallid, poor,

The Boston Athenaeum

© Amy Lowell

Thou dear and well-loved haunt of happy hours,
How often in some distant gallery,
Gained by a little painful spiral stair,
Far from the halls and corridors where throng

The Great Adventure of Max Breuck

© Amy Lowell

1
A yellow band of light upon the street
Pours from an open door, and makes a wide
Pathway of bright gold across a sheet

The Bombardment

© Amy Lowell

The child wakes again and screams at the yellow petalled flower
flickering at the window. The little red lips of flame
creep along
the ceiling beams.

Mirage

© Amy Lowell

How is it that, being gone, you fill my days,
And all the long nights are made glad by thee?
No loneliness is this, nor misery,
But great content that these should be the ways

The Shadow

© Amy Lowell

The Coroner took the body away,
And the watches were sold that Saturday.
The Auctioneer said one could seldom buy
Such watches, and the prices were high.

Sword Blades and Poppy Seed

© Amy Lowell

A drifting, April, twilight sky,
A wind which blew the puddles dry,
And slapped the river into waves
That ran and hid among the staves

Spring Day

© Amy Lowell

Bath
The day is fresh-washed and fair, and there is
a smell of tulips and narcissus
in the air.

In Darkness

© Amy Lowell

Must all of worth be travailled for, and those
Life's brightest stars rise from a troubled sea?
Must years go by in sad uncertainty
Leaving us doubting whose the conquering blows,

Dreams

© Amy Lowell

I do not care to talk to you although
Your speech evokes a thousand sympathies,
And all my being's silent harmonies
Wake trembling into music. When you go

Patience

© Amy Lowell

Be patient with you?
When the stooping sky
Leans down upon the hills
And tenderly, as one who soothing stills

Before the Altar

© Amy Lowell

Before the Altar, bowed, he stands
With empty hands;
Upon it perfumed offerings burn
Wreathing with smoke the sacrificial urn.

To What Shall I Compare Her?

TO what shall I compare her,
That is as fair as she?
For she is fairer - fairer
Than the sea.

I Now, O Friend, Whom Noiselessly The Snows

I NOW, O friend, whom noiselessly the snows
Settle around, and whose small chamber grows
Dusk as the sloping window takes its load:

Air Of Diabelli's

Still in the river see the shallop floats.
Hark! Chimes the falling oar.
Still in the mind
Hark to the song of the past!
Dream, and they pass in their dreams.

So with the deeper joys of which I dreamed:
Life yields more rapture than did childhoods fancies,
And each year brings more pleasure than I waited.
Friendship proves truer than of old it seemed,
And, all beyond youths passion-hued romances,
Love is more perfect than anticipated.