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Jessie B. Rittenhouse, ed. (1869–1948). The Little Book of Modern Verse. 1917.

Index to First Lines

Above the shouting of the gale
A caravan from China comes
Across the fields of yesterday
A flying word from here and there
All I could see from where I stood
Aloof upon the day’s immeasured dome
A man said unto his Angel
A mile behind is Gloucester town
Apple-green west and an orange bar
A rhyme, of good Death’s inn!
As I came down from Lebanon
As in the midst of battle there is room
At the gate of the West I stand
Beauty calls and gives no warning
Before the solemn bronze Saint Gaudens made
Be still. The Hanging Gardens were a dream
Bowed by the weight of centuries he leans
Breathe me the ancient words when I shall find
By seven vineyards on one hill
Comrades, pour the wine to-night
Da spreeng ees com’! but oh, da joy
De massa ob de sheepfol
England, I stand on thy imperial ground
Fluid the world flowed under us: the hills
For a name unknown
For me the jasmine buds unfold
Four winds blowing thro’ the sky
From their folded mates they wander far
God, I return to You on April days
Golden pulse grew on the shore
Grandmither, think not I forget, when I come back to town
Grey rocks, and greyer sea
Grow, grow, thou little tree
Heart free, band free
He had been singing—but I had not heard his voice
Helen’s lips are drifting dust
Here is the place where Loveliness keeps house
Her talk was all of woodland things
He whom a dream hath possessed knoweth no more of doubting
Hill people turn to their hills
Himself is least afraid
How often in the summer-tide
I am fevered with the sunset
I belt the morn with ribboned mist
If love were but a little thing
I have praised many loved ones in my song
I know it must be winter (though I sleep)
I lift mine eyes against the sky
In an old book at even as I read
In silence, solitude and stern surmise
In the middle of August when the southwest wind
In the pain, in the loneliness of love
I ride on the mountain tops, I ride
I so loved once, when Death came by I hid
I try to knead and spin, but my life is low the while
Its friendship and its carelessness
I, who have lost the stars, the sod
I would I might forget that I am I
I would unto my fair restore
Let me no more a mendicant
Let not our town be large—remembering
Life burns us up like fire
Life said: My house is thine with all its store
Listen to the tawny thief
Live blindly and upon the hour. The Lord
Lord of my heart’s elation
Love came back at fall o’ dew
May is building her house. With apple blooms
Memphis and Karnak, Luxor, Thebes, the Nile
Mid glad green miles of tillage
Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn
My heart is like a city of the gay
My heart it was a cup of gold
My heart was winter-bound until
My love for thee doth take me unaware
My mother’s hands are cool and fair
My Soul goes clad in gorgeous things
My true love from her pillow rose
Naked and brave thou goest
Nightingales warble about it
Night is the true democracy. When day
Now along the solemn heights
Now since mine even is come at last
O brown brook, O blithe brook, what will you say to me
Of old it went forth to Euchenor, pronounced of his sire
O hearken, all ye little weeds
Oh, grieve not, Ladies, if at night
O little buds all bourgeoning with Spring
O love that is not Love, but dear, so dear!
Only of thee and me the night wind sings
Others endure Man’s rule: he therefore deems
Out of the conquered Past
Out of the purple drifts
O white Priest of Eternity, around
Perhaps they laughed at Dante in his youth
Sargon is dust, Semiramis a clod!
Shall I say that what heaven gave
She’s somewhere in the sunlight strong
Sleep softly … eagle forgotten … under the stone
So hath he fallen, the Endymion of the air
Song is so old
Speak! said my soul, be stern and adequate
Squire Adam had two wives, they say
Such special sweetness was about
Sweet is the highroad when the skylarks call
Sweet is the time for joyous folk
That day her eyes were deep as night
The angels in high places
The harps hung up in Babylon
The hours I spent with thee, dear heart
The islands called me far away
The little Road says, Go
The low-voiced girls that go
Then, lady, at last thou art sick of my sighing
Then that dread angel near the awful throne
The old eternal spring once more
The Ox he openeth wide the Doore
There is a quest that calls me
There is no escape by the river
There is something in the autumn that is native to my blood
These are the best of him
The three ghosts on the lonesome road
The twilight’s inner flame grows blue and deep
The waves about Iona dirge
The weasel thieves in silver suit
They went forth to battle, but they always fell
This, then, is she
Threading a darksome passage all alone
Thy hands are like cool herbs that bring
To-day ees: com’ from Eetaly
To-day I saw the shop-girl go
To you he gave his laughter and his jest
Upon a cloud among the stars we stood
Uriel, you that in the ageless sun
Voice, with what emulous fire thou singest free hearts of old fashion
We are the toilers from whom God barred
We are they that go, that go
We go no more to Calverly’s
We needs must be divided in the tomb
What delightful hosts are they
What shape so furtive steals along the dim
When I am dead and over me bright April
When I am dead and sister to the dust
When I am tired of earnest men
When I consider Life and its few years
When I have finished with this episode
When the Norn Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour
When the wind is low, and the sea is soft
Where are the friends that I knew in my Maying
Whither, with blue and pleading eyes
Who drives the horses of the sun
Who shall declare the joy of the running!
Why do you seek the sun
Why sing the legends of the Holy Grail
Wind-washed and free, full-swept by rain and wave
With cassock black, baret and book
Would I were on the sea-lands
Yes, Nightingale, through all the summer-time