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.
More verses by Amy Lowell
- Epitaph Of A Young Poet Who Died Before Having Achieved Success
- A Tulip Garden
- Anticipation
- The Pike
- A Roxbury Garden