William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. (1878–1962). Anthology of Magazine Verse for 1920. 1920.
Index to First Lines
- Across the school-ground it would start
- A fitting benediction of words
- Ah, how I pity the young dead who gave
- All night the crickets chirp
- A lonely lake, a lonely shore
- Although I saw before me there the face
- A man may think wild things under the moon
- Bed is the boon for me!
- Bees, go tell the things he treasured
- Behind the high white wall
- Be quiet, worker in my breast
- Boo-shoo! Boo-shoo!
- Christ said “Mary,” as he walked within the garden
- Dearest, we are like two flowers
- Even as a hawk’s in the large heaven’s hollow
- Even when all my body sleeps
- Every year Emily Dickinson sent one friend
- Four faces in the dark
- God has such a splendid way
- Gray are the gardens of our Celtic lands
- Green golden door, swing in, swing in!
- He did not know that he was dead
- Her eyes are sunlit hazel
- Her eyes hold black whips
- Her faith abandoned and her place despised
- Her footsteps fall in silent sands
- Her scant skirt spreads above her knees
- How far is it to Babylon?
- I am a dancer. When I pray
- I am afraid to go into the woods
- I am weighed down beneath a clustering load
- I cannot put you away
- I come singing the keen sweet smell of grass
- I do not kneel at night, to say a prayer
- If I could sing the song of the dawn
- If swoops gray-winged across the obliterated hills
- If what we fought for seems not worth the fighting
- I have made grief a gorgeous, queenly thing
- I have on mine no likeness
- I have seen this city in the day and the sun
- I must have passed the crest a while ago
- I never met the Spring alone before
- In the dark night I heard a stirring
- I saw by looking in his eyes
- I slumbered with your poems on my breast
- It’s just a heap of ruin
- It’s little I care what path I take
- I’ve brung you my three babes, that lost their Maw a year ago
- I walked my fastest down the twilight street
- I watch the farmers in their fields
- I, who fade with the lilacs
- I, who laughed my youth away
- Let it be forgotten, as a flower is forgotten
- Let the ghost of the brave be carried away
- Light your cigarette, then, in this shadow
- Like wine grown stale, the street-lamp’s pallor seeks
- Lilith, Lilith wept for the moon
- Lot 65: John Keats to Fanny Brawne
- Love, we have dipped Life’s humble bread
- Make of my voice a blue-edged Sword, Oh, Lord!
- “Maximilian Marvelous,” we called him for a joke
- Men know that the birch-tree always
- Men who have loved the ships they took to sea
- My arms were always quiet
- Not all flowers have souls
- Nothing to say to all those marriages!
- Now that the gods are gone
- Observant of the way she told
- O Earth you are too dear to-night
- Of finest porcelain and of choicest dye
- Off the long headland, threshed about by round-backed breakers
- Oh line of trees all dark and green
- Oh, the lives of men, lives of men
- O Love, now the herded billows over the holy plain
- O, my friend
- One night in May in a clear sky
- On the cord dead hangs our sister
- Ou! Ou! Ou!
- People that build their houses inland
- Red wreaths
- Saddle me up the Zebra Dun
- Searching my heart for its true sorrow
- She said, “Lift high the cup!”
- She wore purple, and when other people slept
- Stiff in midsummer green, the stolid hillsides
- Strange that she can keep with ease
- Suddenly flickered a flame
- The dust is thick along the road
- The lawyers, Bob, know too much
- The pomp of capitals long left to rust
- There will be rose and rhododendron
- The Roman wall was not more grave than this
- The roses and vines and the tall, straight, delicate poplars
- The sound of rustling silk is stilled
- The sun shines bright in many places
- The transports move stealthily to sea
- The ways of the world are a-coming—up Cyarr!
- The white-walled Rome of an unwritten epic
- The wood is talking in its sleep
- The world is wasted with fire and sword
- They said someone was waiting
- They stormed the forts of Nature
- They that dwell in shadow
- This festal day, two thousand times returning
- Three school-girls pass this way each day
- To Bombay and Capetown, and ports of a hundred lands
- Trees need not walk the earth
- Two of Thy children one summer day worked in their garden, Lord
- We are the deathless dreamers of the world
- We are walking with the month
- What are the Islands to me
- What do I care, in the dreams and the languor of spring
- What is dust?
- When my young Soul went first to ride
- When you and I are laid away
- Yes, I’ve sev’ral kivers you can see
- You loved the hay in the meadow
- Your hot voice sizzles from some cool tree near by
- You sent me a sprig of mignonette
- You talk of this and that, of that and this