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About this Poem 

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

The Way

          At first a mere thread of a footpath half blotted out by the grasses
          Sweeping triumphant across it, it wound between hedges of roses
          Whose blossoms were poised above leaves as pond lilies float on the water,
          While hidden by bloom in a hawthorn a bird filled the morning with singing.

          It widened a highway, majestic, stretching ever to distant horizons,
          Where shadows of tree-branches wavered, vague outlines invaded by sunshine;
          No sound but the wind as it whispered the secrets of earth to the flowers,
          And the hum of the yellow bees, honey-laden and dusty with pollen.
          And Summer said, "Come, follow onward, with no thought save the longing
            to wander,
          The wind, and the bees, and the flowers, all singing the great song
            of Nature,
          Are minstrels of change and of promise, they herald the joy of the Future."

          Later the solitude vanished, confused and distracted the road
          Where many were seeking and jostling. Left behind were the trees
            and the flowers,
          The half-realized beauty of quiet, the sacred unconscious communing.
          And now he is come to a river, a line of gray, sullen water,
          Not blue and splashing, but dark, rolling somberly on to the ocean.
          But on the far side is a city whose windows flame gold in the sunset.
          It lies fair and shining before him, a gem set betwixt sky and water,
          And spanning the river a bridge, frail promise to longing desire,
          Flung by man in his infinite courage, across the stern force of the water;
          And he looks at the river and fears, the bridge is so slight,
            yet he ventures
          His life to its fragile keeping, if it fails the waves will engulf him.
          O Arches! be strong to uphold him, and bear him across to the city,
          The beautiful city whose spires still glow with the fires of sunset!

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

          Look, Dear, how bright the moonlight is to-night!
          See where it casts the shadow of that tree
          Far out upon the grass. And every gust
          Of light night wind comes laden with the scent
          Of opening flowers which never bloom by day:
          Night-scented stocks, and
          Life is a stream
          On which we strew
          Petal by petal the flower of our heart;
          The end lost in dream,
          They float past our view,
          We only watch their glad, early start.

          Freighted with hope,
          Crimsoned with joy,
          We scatter the
          A flickering glimmer through a window-pane,
          A dim red glare through mud bespattered glass,
          Cleaving a path between blown walls of sleet
          Across uneven pavements sunk in slime
          To scatter and then quench itself in mist.
          And struggling, slipping, often