Amy Lowell: The Poet

The Poet

What instinct forces man to journey on,  Urged by a longing blind but dominant!  Nothing he sees can hold him, nothing daunt His never failing eagerness.  The sun Setting in splendour every night has won  His vassalage; those towers flamboyant  Of airy cloudland palaces now haunt His daylight wanderings.  Forever done With simple joys and quiet happiness  He guards the vision of the sunset sky; Though faint with weariness he must possess  Some fragment of the sunset's majesty; He spurns life's human friendships to profess  Life's loneliness of dreaming ecstasy.