Robert Lowell Poems

My Dolphin, you only guide me by surprise,
a captive as Racine, the man of craft,
drawn through his maze of iron composition
by the incomparable wandering voice of Phèdre.
...

The night attendant, a B.U. sophomore,
rouses from the mare's-nest of his drowsy head
propped on The Meaning of Meaning.
He catwalks down our corridor.
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Wallowing in this bloody sty,
I cast for fish that pleased my eye
(Truly Jehovah's bow suspends
No pots of gold to weight its ends);
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What was is ... since 1930;
the boys in my old gang
are senior partners. They start up
bald like baby birds
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'It is the future generation that presses into being by means of
these exuberant feelings and supersensible soap bubbles of ours.'
- Schopenhauer
...

Gone now the baby's nurse,
a lioness who ruled the roost
and made the Mother cry.
She used to tie
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September twenty-second, Sir: today
I answer. In the latter part of May,
Hard on our Lord’s Ascension, it began
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I saw the spiders marching through the air,
Swimming from tree to tree that mildewed day
In latter August when the hay
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An old man in Concord forgets to go to morning service. He falls asleep, while reading Vergil, and dreams that he is
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Your nurse could only speak Italian,
but after twenty minutes I could imagine your final week,
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