Index of First Lines

 

A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z





A little mound of earth near the Matine shore
A spirit pass'd before me: I beheld
A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
A sweet disorder in the dress
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: 
A YEAR ago, you swore, fond she!
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
ABSENT or present, still to thee,
ADIEU, thou Hill! where early joy
ADIEU, ye joys of La Valette!
ÆGLE, beauty and poet, has two little crimes;
Ah! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring sprite,
AH! heedless girl! why thus disclose
AH! Love was never yet without
All that I had I brought,
All the hills and vales along
Along the field as we came by
And death shall have no dominion.
And did those feet in ancient time
And thou art dead, as young and fair,
And thou wert sad – yet I was not with thee;
And what a charm is in the rich hot scent
And wilt thou leave me thus!
And wilt thou weep when I am low?
As Julia once a-slumb'ring lay,
As late I rambled in the happy fields,
As o'er the cold sepulchral stone
As shews the air when with a rain-bow graced,
As the Liberty lads o'er the sea
As through the wild green hills of Wyre
Asleep! O sleep a little while, white pearl!
Away with your fictions of flimsy romance,
AWAY, away, ye notes of woe!
'Away, away, your fleeting arts
Away, ye gay landscapes, ye garden of roses!

Bald heads forgetful of their sins,
Bards of Passion and of Mirth, 
Be my mistress short or tall
Be still, my soul, be still; the arms you bear are brittle,
Below the thunders of the upper deep,
BELSHAZZAR! from the banquet turn,
BENEATH Blessington's eyes
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Beyond the pale of memory,
Bid me to live, and I will live,
Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead!
BORN in the garret, in the kitchen bred,
Break, break, break,
Bright be the place of thy soul!
Bright Star! would I were steadfast as thou art —
Bring, in this timeless grave to throw,
By the North Gate, the wind blows full of sand,

Calm, sad, secure; behind high convent walls,
Camouflaged, they detach lengths of sea and sky
Candour compels me, BECHER! to commend
Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry,
CHILL and mirk is the nightly blast,
Christmass is come and every hearth
Clunton and Clunbury,
Cold eyelids that hide like a jewel
Cold in the earth — and the deep snow piled above thee,
Come little Infant, Love me now,
Come live with me and be my Love,(Marlowe)
Come live with me, and be my love, (Donne)
Come queen of months in company
Come away, come, sweet love
Come then, and like two doves with silvery wings,
Come you home a hero,
COULD I remount the river of my years
COULD Love for ever
"Courage!" he said, and pointed toward the land,
Cruel Cerinthus! does the fell disease

Dark eyed,
Daughter of pastoral smells and sights
Dear are the days of youth! (prose)
Dear Becher, you tell me to mix with mankind;
DEAR Doctor, I have read your play,
Dear Long, in this sequester'd scene,
DEAR object of defeated care!
Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Death is nothing at all,
Deep in the shady sadness of a vale 
Dew sate on Julia's hair,
Dig the grave and let me lie:
Display thy breasts, my Julia, there let me
Do not go gentle into that good night
Do not stand at my grave and weep
Does the road wind up-hill all the way?
Don't Grieve for me for now I'm free,
Dorset! whose early steps with mine have stray'd,
Doubtless, sweet girl! the hissing lead,
Drink to me only with thine eyes,
Droop, droop no more, or hang the head,

Earth, ocean, air, belovèd brotherhood!
Eliza, what fools are the Mussulman sect,
Equal to Jove that youth must be —
ERE the daughter of Brunswick is cold in her grave,
Erewhile, before the world was old,
Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind!
Even like two little bank-dividing brooks,
Ever let the Fancy roam, 
Every day is a fresh beginning,

'FAIR Albion, smiling, sees her son depart
Fair Isabel, poor simple Isabel!
Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be coy
Fame, wisdom, love, and power were mine,
FAMED for contemptuous breach of sacred ties,
'Far I hear the bugle blow
Far in a western brookland
FARE thee well! and if for ever,
FAREWELL! if ever fondest prayer
'Farewell to barn and stack and tree,
FAREWELL to the Land where the gloom of my Glory
Father of Light! great God of Heaven!
FEW years have pass'd since thou and I
Fill the goblet again! for I never before
FOR Oxford and for Waldegrave
Forget not yet the tried intent
Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;
Fourteen small broider'd berries on the hem
Francisca walks in the shadow of night,
Friend, hope for the guest while you are alive.
Friend of my youth! when young we roved,
From Clee to heaven the beacon burns,
From far, from eve and morning
From the depth of the dreamy decline of the dawn
From the last hill that looks on thy once holy dome,
Full many a dreary hour have I past,

 

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Gently dip, but not too deep,
Get up, get up for shame! the blooming morn
Give me a golden pen, and let me lean 
Give me my scallop-shell of quiet,
Glory and loveliness have passed away;
Good Kosciusko, thy great name alone 
Good plays are scarce:
Great Jove, to whose almighty throne
Great spirits now on earth are sojourning; 
Had I a man’s fair form, then might my sighs
Had I the heaven's embroidered cloths,
Hadst thou liv’d in days of old,
Had we but world enough, and time,
Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!
Half a league, half a league,
Happy is England! I could be content 
Happy the man, and happy he alone,
Harvest approaches with its bustling day
Harvest awakes the morning still
Hast thou from the caves of Golconda, a gem
He clasps the crag with crookèd hands;
He did not wear his scarlet coat,
HE unto whom thou art so partial,
He who sublime in epic numbers roll'd,
Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee,
Her Face
Here, in this little Bay,
HERE once engaged the stranger's view
'Here the hangman stops his cart:
Here, where the world is quiet,
HERE'S a happy new year! but with reason
High in the midst, surrounded by his peers,
High the vanes of Shrewsbury gleam
Highmindedness, a jealousy for good, 
Hills of Annesley, bleak and barren,
HIS father's sense, his mother's grace,
His golden locks time hath to silver turned;
Hot sun, cool fire, tempered with sweet air,
How delicious is the winning
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
How fever’d is the man, who cannot look
How happy is he born and taught
How many bards gild the lapses of time!
How rich and pleasing thou, my Julia, art,
How stern are the woes of the desolate mourner
How sweetly shines through azure skies,
How vainly men themselves amaze
How wonderful is death?
Hush'd are the winds, and still the evening gloom,
HUZZA! Hodgson, we are going,

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
I am standing by the seashore.
I am: yet what I am none cares or knows,
I arise from dreams of Thee
I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
I caught this morning morning's minion, king-
I come from haunts of coot and hern,
I dare not ask a kiss,
I do not love thee! — no! I do not love thee!
I dreamt the Roses one time went
I ENTER thy garden of roses,
I fear that Puck is dead, — it is so long
I find no peace, and all my war is done;
I found her out there
I HAD a dream, which was not all a dream.
I hate that drum's discordant sound,
I have been wanton, and too bold, I fear,
I have met them at close of day
I hoed and trenched and weeded,
I know that I shall meet my fate
‘I lay my branch of laurel down.’
I leant upon a coppice gate,
I loved thee, though I told thee not,
I met a traveller from an antique land
I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
I Ne'er was struck before that hour
I pray thee, leave, love me no more,
I rage at my own image in the glass,
I READ the 'Christabel';
I remember, I remember
I saw old Autumn in the misty morn
I saw thee weep - the big bright tear
I speak not - I trace not - I breathe not thy name,
I STOOD beside the grave of him who blazed
I stood tip-toe upon a little hill,
I watched the glory of her childhood change,
I want a hero: an uncommon want,
I weep for Adonais - he is dead!
I went out to the hazel wood,
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
I will sing unto the Lord, for he hath triumphed gloriously:
I wish I could remember the first day,
I wish to tune my quivering lyre
I would I were a careless child,
If by chance your eye offend you,
IF, for silver or for gold,
If I should die, think only this of me:
IF, in the month of dark December,
IF sometimes in the haunts of men
If that high world, which lies beyond
If the red slayer think he slays,
If thou must love me, let it be for nought
If truth in hearts that perish
If you can keep your head when all about you
ILL-FATED Heart! And can it be,
Immortal clothing I put on
In a coign of the cliff between lowland and highland,
In a drear-nighted December,
In a ferny byway
IN digging up your bones, Tom Paine,
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
In dim green depths rot ingot-laden ships;
In law an infant, and in years a boy,
IN moments to delight devoted,
In my own shire, if I was sad,
IN one dread night our city saw, and sigh'd,
IN one who felt as once he felt
In summertime on Bredon
In the valley of waters we wept o'er the day
In thee I fondly hoped to clasp
IN this beloved marble view,
In your mother's apple-orchard,
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
Infants' graves are steps of angels, where
Into my heart an air that kills
Into the skies, one summer’s day,
'Is my team ploughing,
'Is there anybody there?' said the Traveller,
It is an ancient Mariner,
It is the hour when from the boughs (Hebrew Melodies)
It is the hour when from the boughs (Parisina - full version)
It is not death, that sometime in a sight
It little profits that an idle king,
It nods and curtseys and recovers
I walk through the long schoolroom questioning;
It was a dismal and a fearful night:

JOHN ADAMS lies here, of the parish of Southwell,
July the month of summers prime

 

Keen, fitful gusts are whisp’ring here and there 
Know ye the land where cypress and myrtle

Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine
Leave your home behind, lad,
Lesbia! since far from you I've ranged,
Let Folly smile, to view the names
Let us go hence, my songs; she will not hear.
Let us go hence: the night is now at hand;
Light, so low upon earth,
Live, live with me, and thou shalt see
Live thy life,
Lo! I must tell a tale of chivalry;
Loitering with a vacant eye
Long years! — It tries the thrilling frame to bear
Look not in my eyes, for fear
Louder than gulls the little children scream
Love in my bosom like a bee
Love is a sickness full of woes,
Love, like a gipsy, lately came,
Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Lying asleep between the strokes of night

Mad Patsy said, he said to me,
MAID of Athens, ere we part,
Many a vanish'd year and age,
Many the wonders I this day have seen:
March month of 'many weathers' wildly comes
Marion! why that pensive brow?
MONTGOMERY! true, the common lot
Much have I travell’d in the realms of gold, 
Music, when soft voices die,
MUST thou go, my glorious Chief,
My aspens dear, whose airy cages quelled,
MY boat is on the shore,
My days among the Dead are past;
MY dear Mr. Murray,
My delight and thy delight
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 
My heart is like a singing bird
My Infelice's face, her brow, her eye,
My lady walks her morning round,
My love
My love is of a birth as rare
My love, we will go, we will go, I and you,
My lute, awake! perform the last
My pensive SARA ! thy soft cheek reclined
My sister! my sweet sister! if a name
My soul is dark - Oh! quickly string
My soul would one day go and seek
My true love hath my heart, and I have his,

Nature now spreads around in dreary hue
Nay, let us walk from fire unto fire,
Newstead! fast-falling, once-resplendent dome!
Night is o'er England, and the winds are still;
Nisus, the guardian of the portal stood,
No breath of air to break the wave
No coward soul is mine,
No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
No specious splendour of this stone
No! those days are gone away, 
Not I, not I, but the wind that blows through me!
Now hollow fires burn out to black,
Now Morning from her orient chamber came,
Now summer is in flower and natures hum
Nymph of the downward smile, and sidelong glance,

 

O Earth, lie heavily upon her eyes;
O Goddess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung 
O! had my Fate been join'd with thine,
O my trade it is the rarest one,
O! Never say that I was false of heart,
O saw ye not fair Ines?
O solitude! if I must with thee dwell,
O Talk not to me of a name great in story;
O to be in England
'O, what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
Of two fair virgins, modest, though admired,
Oft have you seen a swan superbly frowning,
OH, Anne, your offences to me have been grievous:
`OH! banish care' — such ever be
OH, Castlereagh! thou art a patriot now;
Oh! could Le Sage's demon's gift
Oh! did those eyes, instead of fire,
Oh factious viper! whose envenom'd tooth
Oh fair enough are sky and plain,
Oh, Friend! for ever loved, for ever dear!
OH how I wish that an embargo
OH Lady! when I left the shore,
Oh, Mariamne! now for thee
Oh! might I kiss those eyes of fire,
OH! my lonely – lonely – lonely – Pillow!
OH, say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have decreed
Oh see how thick the goldcup flowers
'Oh, sick I am to see you, will you never let me be?
Oh! snatched away in beauty's bloom,
Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story;
Oh, thou! in Hellas deem'd of heavenly birth,
OH Venice! Venice! when thy marble walls
Oh! Weep for those that wept by Babel's stream,
Oh, when I was in love with you
Oh when shall the grave hide for ever my sorrow?
Oh! yes, I will own we were dear to each other;
OH you, who in all names can tickle the town,
'O'ER the glad waters of the dark blue sea,
On either side the river lie
On Jordan's banks the Arab's camels stray,
On moonlit heath and lonesome bank
On the idle hill of summer,
On Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble;
On your midnight pallet lying,
On your slender body
ONCE fairly set out on his party of pleasure,
Once in a golden hour
Once in the wind of morning
One seemed all dark and red--a tract of sand,
ONE struggle more, and I am free
One word is too often profaned
Others, I am not the first,
OUR life is two-fold: Sleep hath its own world,
Out of the night that covers me,

Pale beech and pine-tree blue,
Parent of golden dreams, Romance!
Posterity will ne'er survey

Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir,

Rarely, rarely comest thou,
Remember him whom passion’s power
Remember me when I am gone away,
Remember thee!  remember thee!
Remind me not, remind me not,
River,that rollest by the ancient walls,
Rough wind, that moanest loud
Rousseau – Voltaire – our Gibbon – and De Stael –

Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate:
Say, lad, have you things to do?
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
See how the flowers, as at parade,
See'st thou that cloud as silver clear,
See with what simplicity 
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Shall I strew on thee rose or rue or laurel,
She walks in beauty, like the night
She was a phantom of delight
She stood breast-high amid the corn,
Shot? so quick, so clean an ending?
Should you ask me,
Since now the hour is come at last,
Since our Country - our God - Oh my Sire -
Since the refinement of this polish'd age
Sir Walter Vivian all a summer's day
Sleep! Cast thy canopy
Small, busy flames play through the fresh laid coals, 
So, we'll go no more a-roving
Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;
SONS of the Greeks, arise!
Souls of Poets dead and gone,
Some ask'd me where the Rubies grew:
Spot of my youth! whose hoary branches sigh,
St. Agnes’ Eve—Ah, bitter chill it was! 
STAR of the brave! – whose beam hath shed
START not — nor deem my spirit fled;
Still must I hear? — shall hoarse Fitzgerald bawl
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
STRAHAN, Tonson Lintot of the times,
STRANGER! behold, interr'd together,
Strew on her roses, roses,
Strong Son of God, immortal Love,
Sunset and evening star,
Surprised by joy — impatient as the Wind
Swallow, my sister, O sister swallow,
Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong,
Sweet girl! though only once we met,
Swiftly walk o'er the western wave, Spirit of Night!

Tenderly, day that I have loved, I close your eyes,
'Terence, this is stupid stuff:
That is no country for old men, The young
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
The Bishop tells us: `When the boys come back
The braziers, it seems, are preparing to pass
The burden of fair women. Vain delight,
The chain I gave was fair to view,
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The day is long; the worn Noon dreams.
The Devil return’d to hell by two,
The everlasting universe of things
The fountains mingle with the river
The Frost performs its secret ministry,
The glories of our blood and state
The harp the monarch minstrel swept,
The infant april joins the spring
The keen stars were twinkling,
The King was on his throne,
The kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left
The lad came to the door at night,
The lads in their hundreds to Ludlow come in for the fair,
The lamp must be replenish'd, but even then
The last of last words spoken is, Good-bye -
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
The man of firm and noble soul
The Moorish King rides up and down,
The ‘Origin of Love!’ – Ah why
The poetry of earth is never dead: 
The red rose whispers of passion,
The roses of love glad the garden of life,
The sea is calm to-night.
The Serfs are glad through Lara's wide domain,
The shores of Styx are lone for evermore,
The snow is gone from cottage tops
The Son of Love and Lord of War I sing;
The spell is broke; the charm is flown!
The star-filled seas are smooth to-night
The street sounds to the soldiers' tread,
The Sun at noon to higher air,
The sun descending in the west,
The sun is warm, the sky is clear,
The time you won your town the race
The trees are in their autumn beauty,
The vane on Hughley steeple
The village sleeps in mist from morn till noon
The wild gazelle on Judah's hills
The winds out of the west land blow,
The world is a bundle of hay,
Then Almitra spoke again and said, And what of Marriage, master?
There be none of Beauty's daughters
There is a Reaper, whose name is Death,
There is a silence where hath been no sound,
THERE is a tear for all that die,
There is 'great rejoicing at the nation's capital'. So says the
There pass the careless people
There's a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Khatmandu,
THERE'S not a joy the world can give like that it takes away,
There was a time, I need not name,
These are the clouds about the fallen sun,
These hearts were woven of human joys and cares,
These locks, which fondly thus entwine,
These to His Memory--since he held them dear,
They are not long, the weeping and the laughter,
They flee from me that sometime did me seek,
They had long met o’ Zundays—her true love and she—
They say at Capri that Tiberius bound
They say that Hope is happiness -
They sleep well here,
They told me, Heraclitus, they told me you were dead;
Thine eyes’ blue tenderness, thy long fair hair,
Think no more, lad; laugh, be jolly:
Think thou and act; to-morrow thou shalt die.
Think'st thou I saw thy beauteous eyes,
This Band, which bound thy yellow hair,
This darksome burn, horseback brown,
THIS day, of all our days, has done
This faint resemblance of thy charms,
This is to the crown and blessing of my life,
This time of year a twelvemonth past,
This votive pledge of fond esteem,
THOSE flaxen locks, those eyes of blue
THOU art not false, but thou art fickle,
Thou art to all lost love the best,
Thou mastering me
THOU whose spell can raise the dead,
THOU Power! who hast ruled me through infancy's days,
Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness,
Thou whose spell can raise the dead,
THOUGH the day of my destiny's over,
THROUGH cloudless skies, in silvery sheen,
THROUGH life's dull road, so dim and dirty,
Through thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds whistle;
Throughout the world if it were sought,
THY cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe,
Thy days are done - thy fame begun -
Thy verse is 'sad' enough, no doubt:
TIME! on whose arbitrary wing
'Tis done — and shivering in the gale
Tis done – but yesterday a King!
'Tis done! - I saw it in my dreams;
'Tis hard to say, if greater Want of Skill
'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock
'Tis spring; come out to ramble
'Tis time, I think, by Wenlock town
'Tis time this heart should be unmoved,
Titan! to whose immortal eyes
To be the father of the fatherless,
To him who in the love of nature holds
To hook the reader, you, John Murray,
To Jenny came a gentle youth
To make a final conquest of all me,
To one who has been long in city pent,
To seem the stranger lies my lot, my life
To these, whom death again did wed,
Trust thou thy Love: if she be proud, is she not sweet?
'Twas after dread Pultowa's day,
`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
'Twas now the hour when Night had driven
Twice a week the winter through
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
Tyger, tyger, burning bright

Under a lawn, than skies more clear,
UNHAPPY DIVES! in an evil hour
Up the airy mountain,
Upon a time, before the faery broods 

Wake! For the Sun, who scatter'd into flight
Warriors and Chiefs! should the shaft or the sword
We are as clouds that veil the midnight moon;
We are the music-makers,
WE do not curse thee, Waterloo!
We sate down and wept by the waters
We watch’d her breathing thro’ the night,
WEEP, daughter of a royal line,
Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan,
Well ! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made
Well! thou art happy, and I feel
Were I as base as is the lowly plain,
Were my bosom as false as thou deem'st it to be,
Western wind, when will thou blow,
Westward on the high-hilled plains
WHAT are you doing now,
What is Love?
What is more gentle than a wind in summer? 
What is this life if, full of care,
WHAT matter the pangs of a husband and father,
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
‘WHAT say I?’ – not a syllable further in prose;
What should I say?
What though, for showing truth to flatter’d state,
What though while the wonders of nature exploring,
When a dream is born in you
WHEN a man hath no freedom to fight for at home,
WHEN all around grew drear and dark,
When by my solitary hearth I sit,
When coldness wraps this suffering clay,
WHEN Dryden’s fool, ‘unknowing what he sought,’
‘WHEN energising objects men pursue,’
When fierce conflicting urge
When Friendship or Love our sympathies move,
WHEN, from the heart where Sorrow sits,
When I am dead, my dearest,
When I am old,
When I behold a forest spread
When I came last to Ludlow
When I dream that you love me, you'll surely forgive;
When I have Fears that I may cease to be
When I hear that you express an affection so warm,
When I meet the morning beam,
When I roved a young Highlander o'er the dark heath,
When I thy singing next shall hear,
When I was one-and-twenty
When I watch the living meet,
When lads were home from labour
When Love with unconfined wings
When Man, expell'd from Eden's bowers,
When our two souls stand up erect and strong,
When she rises in the morning
When slow Disease, with all her host of pains,
When smoke stood up from Ludlow,
When some proud son of man returns to earth,
When that day comes, whose evening says I'm gone
When the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden's green and gold,
When the lad for longing sighs,
WHEN the last sunshine of expiring day
When the lamp is shatter'd,
WHEN the vain triumph of the imperial lord,
WHEN Thurlow this damn’d nonsense sent
WHEN Time, or soon or late, shall bring
When, to their airy hall, my father's voice
When we are gone, love,
WHEN we two parted
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
When you see millions of the mouthless dead
Whenas in silks my Julia goes,
Whene'er I view those lips of thine,
Where are those honours, Ida! once yow own,
White in the moon the long road lies,
WHO hath not glow’d above the page where fame
WHO kill'd John Keats?
Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind,
Why dost thou wound and break my heart,
WHY, how now, saucy Tom?
Why I tie about thy wrist,
Why, Pigot, complain of this damsel's disdain,
Why should my anxious breast repine.
Wild air, world-mothering air,
WITH death doom'd to grapple,
With delicate, mad hands, behind his sordid bars,
With fingers weary and worn,
With rue my heart is laden
With thee conversing I forget all time,
Withering and keen the winter comes
Within this sober Frame expect
WITHOUT a stone to mark the spot,
Woman! experience might have told me,
Woman! when I behold thee flippant, vain,

Ye Cupids, droop each little head,
Ye scenes of my childhood, whose lov'd recollection
You are a tulip seen today,
You have ask'd for a verse:– the request
You know, we French stormed Ratisbon:
You love us when we're heroes, home on leave,
You smile upon your friend to-day,
YOUNG Oak! when I planted thee deep in the ground,
Young Ben he was a nice young man,
Young Calidore is paddling o’er the lake;
Your pardon, my friend, if my rhymes did offend;
Your smiles are not, as other women's be,
YOUTH, Nature, and relenting Jove,