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However, Lowell had no interest in pursuing a career in that field. Brown , inspired by the poet Maria White, whom he would marry three years later. Leave this field blank. Love James Russell Lowell , - This poem is in the public domain. The snow had begun in the gloaming, And busily all the night Had been heaping field and highway With a silence deep and white. Every pine and fir and hemlock Wore ermine too dear for an earl, And the poorest twig on the elm-tree Was ridged inch deep with pearl.

From sheds new-roofed with Carrara. The sea is lonely, the sea is dreary, The sea is restless and uneasy; Thou seekest quiet, thou art weary, Wandering thou knowest not whither;— Our little isle is green and breezy, Come and rest thee! Oh come hither, Come to this peaceful home of ours, Where evermore The low west-wind creeps.

Under the Willows [May is a pi May is a pious fraud of the almanac, A ghastly parody of real Spring Shaped out of snow and breathed with eastern wind; Or if, o'er-confident, she trust the date, And, with her handful of anemones, Herself as shivery, steal into the sun, The season need but turn his hourglass round, And Winter suddenly, like. Moreover, the Moon Face of the skies preside over our wonder. Fluorescent truant of heaven draw us under.

Silver, circular corpse your decease infects us with unendurable ease, touching nerve-terminals to thermal icicles Coercive as coma, frail as bloom innuendoes of your inverse dawn suffuse the self; our. The Day Is Done. The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight. I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, That my soul cannot resist: Oh, greenly and fair in the lands of the sun, The vines of the gourd and the rich melon run, And the rock and the tree and the cottage enfold, With broad leaves all greenness and blossoms all gold, Like that which o'er Nineveh's prophet once grew, While he waited to know that his warning.

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Anne Diebel reviews ‘Robert Lowell in Love’ by Jeffrey Meyers · LRB 11 August

Love James Russell Lowell , - This poem is in the public domain. The snow had begun in the gloaming, And busily all the night Had been heaping field and highway With a silence deep and white. Every pine and fir and hemlock Wore ermine too dear for an earl, And the poorest twig on the elm-tree Was ridged inch deep with pearl. From sheds new-roofed with Carrara.

The sea is lonely, the sea is dreary, The sea is restless and uneasy; Thou seekest quiet, thou art weary, Wandering thou knowest not whither;— Our little isle is green and breezy, Come and rest thee! Oh come hither, Come to this peaceful home of ours, Where evermore The low west-wind creeps. Under the Willows [May is a pi May is a pious fraud of the almanac, A ghastly parody of real Spring Shaped out of snow and breathed with eastern wind; Or if, o'er-confident, she trust the date, And, with her handful of anemones, Herself as shivery, steal into the sun, The season need but turn his hourglass round, And Winter suddenly, like.

Moreover, the Moon Face of the skies preside over our wonder. In Excelsis You -- you -- Your shadow is sunlight on a plate of silver; Your footsteps, the seeding-place of lilies; Your hands moving, a chime of bells across a windless air. The movement of your hands is the long golden running of light from a rising sun; It is the hopping of birds upon a garden-path.

As the perfume of jonquils, you come forth in the morning. Young horses are not more sudden than your thoughts, Your words are bees about a pear-tree, Your fancies are the gold-and-black striped wasps buzzing among red apples. I drink your lips, I eat the whiteness of your hands and feet.

My mouth is open, As a new jar I am empty and open. Like white water are you who fill the cup of my mouth, Like a brook of water thronged with lilies. You are frozen as the clouds, You are far and sweet as the high clouds.

I dare to reach to you, I dare to touch the rim of your brightness. I leap beyond the winds, I cry and shout, For my throat is keen as is a sword Sharpened on a hone of ivory. My throat sings the joy of my eyes, The rushing gladness of my love. How has the rainbow fallen upon my heart? How have I snared the seas to lie in my fingers And caught the sky to be a cover for my head? How have you come to dwell with me, Compassing me with the four circles of your mystic lightness, So that I say "Glory!

Do I tease myself that morning is morning and a day after? Do I think the air is a condescension, The earth a politeness, Heaven a boon deserving thanks?

So you -- air -- earth -- heaven -- I do not thank you, I take you, I live. And those things which I say in consequence Are rubies mortised in a gate of stone. Crowned You came to me bearing bright roses, Red like the wine of your heart; You twisted them into a garland To set me aside from the mart.

Red roses to crown me your lover, And I walked aureoled and apart. Enslaved and encircled, I bore it, Proud token of my gift to you. The petals waned paler, and shriveled, And dropped; and the thorns started through. Bitter thorns to proclaim me your lover, A diadem woven with rue.

Fireworks You hate me and I hate you And we are so polite, we two! But whenever I see you, I burst apart And scatter the sky with my blazing heart.

Scarlet buttons, and pale green disks, Silver spirals and asterisks, Shoot and tremble in a mist Peppered with mauve and amethyst. I shine in the windows and light up the trees, And all because I hate you, if you please. And when you meet me, you rend asunder And go up in a flaming wonder Of saffron cubes, and crimson moons, And wheels all amaranths and maroons.

Golden lozenges and spades Arrows of malachites and jades, Patens of copper, azure sheaves. As you mount, you flash in the glossy leaves. Such fireworks as we make, we two! Because you hate me and I hate you. I give myself to you, Beloved! My words are little jars For you to take and put upon a shelf. Their shapes are quaint and beautiful, And they have many pleasant colours and lustres To recommend them. Also the scent from them fills the room With sweetness of flowers and crushed grasses.

When I shall have given you the last one, You will have the whole of me, But I shall be dead. 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? The Blue Scarf Pale, with the blue of high zeniths, shimmered over with silver, brocaded In smooth, running patterns, a soft stuff, with dark knotted fringes, it lies there, Warm from a woman's soft shoulders, and my fingers close on it, caressing.

Where is she, the woman who wore it? The scent of her lingers and drugs me! A languor, fire-shotted, runs through me, and I crush the scarf down on my face, And gulp in the warmth and the blueness, and my eyes swim in cool-tinted heavens. Around me are columns of marble, and a diapered, sun-flickered pavement. Rose-leaves blow and patter against it. Below the stone steps a lute tinkles. A jar of green jade throws its shadow half over the floor. A big-bellied Frog hops through the sunlight and plops in the gold-bubbled water of a basin, Sunk in the black and white marble.

The west wind has lifted a scarf On the seat close beside me, the blue of it is a violent outrage of colour. She draws it more closely about her, and it ripples beneath her slight stirring.

Her kisses are sharp buds of fire; and I burn back against her, a jewel Hard and white; a stalked, flaming flower; till I break to a handful of cinders, And open my eyes to the scarf, shining blue in the afternoon sunshine. How loud clocks can tick when a room is empty, and one is alone!

White and Green Hey! My daffodil-crowned, Slim and without sandals! As the sudden spurt of flame upon darkness So my eyeballs are startled with you, Supple-limbed youth among the fruit-trees, Light runner through tasselled orchards. You are an almond flower unsheathed Leaping and flickering between the budded branches.

In a Garden Gushing from the mouths of stone men To spread at ease under the sky In granite-lipped basins, Where iris dabble their feet And rustle to a passing wind, The water fills the garden with its rushing, In the midst of the quiet of close-clipped lawns. Damp smell the ferns in tunnels of stone, Where trickle and plash the fountains, Marble fountains, yellowed with much water.

Splashing down moss-tarnished steps It falls, the water; And the air is throbbing with it. With its gurgling and running. With its leaping, and deep, cool murmur. And I wished for night and you. I wanted to see you in the swimming-pool, White and shining in the silver-flecked water. While the moon rode over the garden, High in the arch of night, And the scent of the lilacs was heavy with stillness. Night, and the water, and you in your whiteness, bathing!

Each plodding wayfarer looks up to gaze, Blinded by rainbow haze, The stuff of happiness, No less, Which wraps me in its glad-hued folds Of peacock golds. Before my feet the dusty, rough-paved way Flushes beneath its gray. My steps fall ringed with light, So bright, It seems a myriad suns are strown About the town. Around me is the sound of steepled bells, And rich perfumed smells Hang like a wind-forgotten cloud, And shroud Me from close contact with the world.

You blazon me with jewelled insignia. A flaming nebula Rims in my life. And yet You set The word upon me, unconfessed To go unguessed. The Garden by Moonlight A black cat among roses, Phlox, lilac-misted under a first-quarter moon, The sweet smells of heliotrope and night-scented stock. The garden is very still, It is dazed with moonlight, Contented with perfume, Dreaming the opium dreams of its folded poppies.

Firefly lights open and vanish High as the tip buds of the golden glow Low as the sweet alyssum flowers at my feet.

Clark later wondered. The next summer they returned to Nantucket. By then Lowell had completed his first year at Harvard and was engaged to. There are several factories in Lowell, each of which belongs to what we should her fall to a love of dress, than I would allow my construction of the real intent and (I have seen that), and should have been still well pleased to look upon her. Then he took Hardwick's alternately furious and anguished letters to him and folded ROBERT LOWELL IN LOVE by Jeffrey MeyersUniversity of they were sitting on a rock, looking out at the ocean from the coast of Maine.