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Louis Untermeyer, ed. (1885–1977). Modern American Poetry. 1919.

Index of First Lines

A bomb has fallen over Notre Dame
Across the fields of yesterday
A fierce unrest seethes at the core
A flying word from here and there
After the whipping, he crawled into bed
A hut, and a tree
All day long I have been working
All the afternoon there has been a chirping of birds
Aloof upon the day’s immeasured dome
An apple orchard smells like wine
An old silver church in a forest
Antiseptic Baby and the Prophylactic Pup
A pitcher of mignonette
A poet had a cat
Apparition of these faces in the crowd
Apple-green west and an orange bar
Be in me as the eternal moods
Blackbird, blackbird in the cage
Black swallows swooping or gliding
Clearing in the forest
Dark on the gold west
Drug clerk stands behind the counter
Eager night and the impetuous winds
Ere yet the giants of modern science had gone a-slumming in smelly slums
Fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room
Fog comes
For God, our God is a gallant foe
From their folded mates they wander far
Garden beds I wandered by
Giuseppe, da barber, ees greata for “mash
Give a rouse, then, in the Maytime
God has a house three streets away
God, though this life is but a wraith
Go ‘way, fiddle! folks is tired o’ hearin’ you a-squawkin
He fought for his soul, and the stubborn fighting
Hem and Haw were the sons of sin
How memory cuts away the years
How many humble hearts have dipped
How pitiful are little folk
I ain’t afraid uv snakes or toads, or bugs or worms or mice
I asked the heaven of stars
I’d rather have Fingers than Toes
I gotta lov’ for Angela
I have a rendezvous with Death
I have known the silence of the stars and of the sea
I have shut my little sister in from life and light
I hear in my heart, I hear in its ominous pulses
I met a little Elf-man, once
Immortal love, too high for my possessing
In a dark hour, tasting the Earth
I never saw a moor
I never saw a Purple Cow
I set apart a day for wandering
Is it as plainly in our living shown
I think that I shall never see
It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning
It is portentous, and a thing of state
Its cloven hoofprint on the sand
I went out to the woods to-day
I went to the dances at Chandlerville
I went to turn the grass once after one
I would that all men my hard case would know
Just now
Lean coyote, prowler of the night
Let me live out my years in heat of blood!
Like a gaunt, scraggly pine
Listen to the tawny thief
Little toy dog is covered with dust
Look—on the topmost branches of the world
Lo, to the battle-ground of Life
Man’s mind is larger than his brow of tears
Moon in heaven’s garden, among the clouds that wander
Night was thick and hazy
North and west along the coast among the misty islands
Oh, where the white quince blossom swings
Old house leans upon a tree
Old Uncle Jim was as blind as a mole
Once, in the sultry heat of midsummer
Order is a lovely thing
Out of me unworthy and unknown
Outside hove Shasta, snowy height on height
Over the shoulders and slopes of the dune
O world, I cannot hold thee close enough!
Park is filled with night and fog
Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo
Rich man has his motor-car
Seen you down at chu’ch las’ night
Serene the silver fishes glide
She limps with halting painful pace
Silver dust
Sky is low, the clouds are mean
Sleep softly  *  *  *  eagle forgotten  *  *  *  under the stone
Smoothing a cypress beam
Solemn light behind the barns
Something there is that doesn’t love a wall
Sometimes when all the world seems grey and dun
Strange that I did not know him then
Streets of the roaring town
Stuff of the moon
Teach me, Father, how to go
There are strange shadows fostered of the moon
There is no frigate like a book
There is something in the autumn that is native to my blood
There’s nothing very beautiful and nothing very gay
These be
They say that dead men tell no tales!
They set the slave free, striking off his chains
Through the dim window, I could see
Tingling shafts of light
To what new fates, my country, far
Twine then the rays
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
Under a toadstool crept a wee Elf
Week had gloomily begun
What delightful hosts are they
When Abraham Lincoln was shoveled into the tombs
When Bill was a lad he was terribly bad
Whenever Richard Cory went down town
When I am dead and over me bright April
When I consider Life and its few years
When I see birches bend to left and right
When quacks with pills political would dope us
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock
When the Norn Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour
When Venus said: “Spell no for me
Whirl up, sea
Without the slightest basis
Woods stretch wild to the mountain side
Yes, my ha’t’s ez ha’d ez stone
You to the left and I to the right