Petals

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--Description: 20th C, Lowell A., Life, Nature-- 

 
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 leaves of our opening rose;
Their widening scope,
Their distant employ,
We never shall know. And the stream as it flows
Sweeps them away,
Each one is gone
Ever beyond into infinite ways.
We alone stay
While years hurry on,
The flower fared forth, though its fragrance still stays.

Amy Lowell

--Did You Know: (February 9, 1874—May 12, 1925) Lowell was an American poet of the imagist school from Brookline, Massachusetts who posthumously won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1926. Lowell was born into Brookline's prominent Lowell family. One brother, Percival Lowell, was a famous astronomer who predicted the existence of the dwarf planet Pluto and believed the canals on Mars showed it hosted living intelligence; another brother, Abbott Lawrence Lowell, served as president of Harvard University. She never attended college because her family did not consider it proper for a woman, but she compensated for this with avid reading and near-obsessive book-collecting. She lived as a socialite and traveled widely, turning to poetry in 1902 after being inspired by a performance of Eleonora Duse in Europe. Read more at: Amy Lowell

--Poetry Terminology: Bacchic-
Classical meter consisting of three syllables per foot: one short, one long, one long.

--Word of the Day: platitude \PLAT-uh-tood; -tyood\ , noun
1. Staleness of ideas or language; triteness.
2. A thought or remark that is banal, trite, or stale.
Example:
Yet a curious thing happens in this book: Whatever promise it offers of satire and enlightened vision dissipates into cliche and platitude.
-(Edward Rothstein, "Against Galactic Rhetoric", New York Times, April 3, 1983)

--Quote of the Day: There is one friend in the life of each of us who seems not a separate person, however dear and beloved, but an expansion, an interpretation, of one's self, the very meaning of one's soul.
~Edith Wharton

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