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Poem by Amy Lowell


Happiness


Happiness, to some, elation;
Is, to others, mere stagnation.
Days of passive somnolence,
At its wildest, indolence.
Hours of empty quietness,
No delight, and no distress.
Happiness to me is wine,
Effervescent, superfine.
Full of tang and fiery pleasure,
Far too hot to leave me leisure
For a single thought beyond it.
Drunk!  Forgetful!  This the bond:  it
Means to give ones soul to gain
Lifes quintessence.  Even pain
Pricks to livelier living, then
Wakes the nerves to laugh again,
Raptures self is three parts sorrow.
Although we must die to-morrow,
Losing every thought but this;
Torn, triumphant, drowned in bliss.
Happiness:  We rarely feel it.
I would buy it, beg it, steal it,
Pay in coins of dripping blood
For this one transcendent good.



Amy Lowell


Amy Lowell's other poems:
  1. The Bungler
  2. The Painter on Silk
  3. The Fool Errant
  4. The Boston Athenaeum
  5. Frankincense and Myrrh


Poems of the other poets with the same name:

  • Alan Milne Happiness ("John had")
  • Edith Wharton Happiness ("THIS perfect love can find no words to say")
  • Ella Wilcox Happiness ("There are so many little things which make life beautiful")

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