The Green Bowl

- 1874-1925
          This little bowl is like a mossy pool
          In a Spring wood, where dogtooth violets grow
          Nodding in chequered sunshine of the trees;
          A quiet place, still, with the sound of birds,
          Where, though unseen, is heard the endless song
          And murmur of the never resting sea.
          'T was winter, Roger, when you made this cup,
          But coming Spring guided your eager hand
          And round the edge you fashioned young green leaves,
          A proper chalice made to hold the shy
          And little flowers of the woods.  And here
          They will forget their sad uprooting, lost
          In pleasure that this circle of bright leaves
          Should be their setting; once more they will dream
          They hear winds wandering through lofty trees
          And see the sun smiling between the leaves.

More by Amy Lowell

A London Thoroughfare. 2 A.M.


They have watered the street,
It shines in the glare of lamps, 
Cold, white lamps, 
And lies
Like a slow-moving river,
Barred with silver and black.
Cabs go down it,
One,
And then another,
Between them I hear the shuffling of feet.
Tramps doze on the window-ledges,
Night-walkers pass along the sidewalks.
The city is squalid and sinister,
With the silver-barred street in the midst,
Slow-moving,
A river leading nowhere.

Opposite my window,
The moon cuts,
Clear and round,
Through the plum-coloured night.
She cannot light the city:
It is too bright.
It has white lamps,
And glitters coldly.

I stand in the window and watch the
   moon.
She is thin and lustreless,
But I love her.
I know the moon, 
And this is an alien city.

Opal

You are ice and fire,
The touch of you burns my hands like snow.
You are cold and flame.
You are the crimson of amaryllis,
The silver of moon-touched magnolias.
When I am with you,
My heart is a frozen pond
Gleaming with agitated torches.

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?