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About this Poem 

From A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass (Houghton Mifflin Company, 1912).

Loon Point

          Softly the water ripples
           Against the canoe's curving side,
          Softly the birch trees rustle
           Flinging over us branches wide.

          Softly the moon glints and glistens
           As the water takes and leaves,
          Like golden ears of corn
           Which fall from loose-bound sheaves,

          Or like the snow-white petals
           Which drop from an overblown rose,
          When Summer ripens to Autumn
           And the freighted year must close.

          From the shore come the scents of a garden,
           And between a gap in the trees
          A proud white statue glimmers
           In cold, disdainful ease.

          The child of a southern people,
           The thought of an alien race,
          What does she in this pale, northern garden,
           How reconcile it with her grace?

          But the moon in her wayward beauty
           Is ever and always the same,
          As lovely as when upon Latmos
           She watched till Endymion came.

          Through the water the moon writes her legends
           In light, on the smooth, wet sand;
          They endure for a moment, and vanish,
           And no one may understand.

          All round us the secret of Nature
           Is telling itself to our sight,
          We may guess at her meaning but never
           Can know the full mystery of night.

          But her power of enchantment is on us,
           We bow to the spell which she weaves,
          Made up of the murmur of waves
           And the manifold whisper of leaves.

This poem is in the public domain.

This poem is in the public domain.

Amy Lowell

Amy Lowell

Born in 1874, Amy Lowell was deeply interested in and influenced by the Imagist movement and she received the Pulitzer Prize for her collection What's O'Clock.

by this poet

          A little garden on a bleak hillside
           Where deep the heavy, dazzling mountain snow
           Lies far into the spring. The sun's pale glow
          Is scarcely able to melt patches wide
          About the single rose bush. All denied
           Of nature's tender ministries. But no
          My Grandpapa lives in a wonderful house
           With a great many windows and doors,
          There are stairs that go up, and stairs that go down,
           And such beautiful, slippery floors.

          But of all of the rooms, even mother's and mine,
           And the bookroom, and parlour
          How still it is! Sunshine itself here falls
           In quiet shafts of light through the high trees
          Which, arching, make a roof above the walls
           Changing from sun to shadow as each breeze
          Lingers a moment, charmed by the strange sight
          Of an Italian theatre,