Verse > Anthologies > Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. > A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895
  PREVIOUS NEXT  
CONTENTS · BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD
Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908).  A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895.  1895.
  
Index to First Lines
He went into the bush
to Now this is the law


He went into the bush, and passed
He who but yesterday would roam
He who died at Azan sends
He wrought at one great work for years
High grace, the dower of queens; and therewithal
High grew the snow beneath the low-hung sky
High on a leaf-carv’d ancient oaken chair
Hilloo, hilloo, hilloo, hilloo!
His kiss is sweet, his word is kind
His life was private; safely led, aloof
Hist, hist, ye winds, ye whispering wavelets hist
Hold hard, Ned! Lift me down once more, and lay me in the shade
Ho! pretty page, with the dimpled chin
Ho, Sailor of the sea!
How like her! But ’t is she herself
How like the leper, with his own sad cry
How little fades from earth when sink to rest
How long, O lion, hast thou fleshless lain?
How many colors here do we see set
How many? said our good Captain
How many summers, love
How many verses have I thrown
How oft I ’ve watch’d thee from the garden croft
How slowly creeps the hand of Time
How steadfastly she worked at it!
How strange it is that, in the after age
How sweet the harmonies of afternoon!
How the leaves sing to the wind!
How would the centuries long asunder
 
I am lying in the tomb, love
I am Miss Catherine’s book
I am no gentleman, not I!
I am that which began
I am the spirit astir
I bend above the moving stream
I bloom but once, and then I perish
I came in light that I might behold
I cannot forget my Joe
I cannot sing to thee as I would sing
I charge you, O winds of the West, O winds with the wings of the dove
I come from nothing; but from where
I come to visit thee agen
I come your sin-rid souls to shrive
I dance and dance! Another faun
I do not ask, O Lord, that life may be
I do not dread an alter’d heart
I dream’d I saw a little brook
I dream’d that I woke from a dream
I drew it from its china tomb
If a leaf rustled, she would start
If all the harm that women have done
If all the world were right
If I could paint you, friend, as you stand there
If I could trust mine own self with your fate
If I desire with pleasant songs
If I forswear the art divine
If in the years that come such thing should be
If it were only a dream
If love were what the rose is
If not now soft airs may blow
If one could have that little head of hers!
If only a single rose is left
If only in dreams may man be fully blest
I found a flower in a desolate plot
I found him openly wearing her token
If she be made of white and red
If she but knew that I am weeping
If the butterfly courted the bee
If there be any one can take my place
If there were dreams to sell
If thou wilt ease thine heart
If Transmigration e’er compel
If you be that May Margaret
I gave my life for thee
I give my soldier-boy a blade
I Had a true-love, none so dear
I have a strain of a departed bard
I have been here before
I have lov’d flowers that fade
I have stay’d too long from your grave, it seems
I have subdued at last the will to live
I have two sons, wife
I have wept a million tears
I heard last night a little child so singing
I heard the dogs howl in the moonlight night
I heard the voice of Jesus say
I hear the bells at eventide
I hear the low wind wash the softening snow
I held her hand, the pledge of bliss
Iits edges foamed with amethyst and rose
I know not how to call you light
I know not of what we ponder’d
I know that these poor rags of womanhood
I learn’d his greatness first at Lavington
I leave thee, beauteous Italy! no more
I like the hunting of the hare
I listen’d to the music broad and deep
I lov’d him not; and yet now he is gone
I love my Lady; she is very fair
I ’m a bird that ’s free
I ’m sittin’ on the stile, Mary
I must not think of thee; and, tired yet strong
In a coign of the cliff between lowland and highland
In after days when grasses high
In Carnival we were, and supp’d that night
In Childhood’s unsuspicious hours
In dim green depths rot ingot-laden ships
I never look’d that he should live so long
In green old gardens, hidden away
In his own image the Creator made
In mid whirl of the dance of Time ye start
In praise of little children I will say
In ruling well what guerdon? Life runs low
In silence, and at night, the Conscience feels
In summer, when the days were long
In sunny girlhood’s vernal life
In teacup-times! The style of dress
In the early morning-shine
In the earth—the earth—thou shalt be laid
In the golden morning of the world
In the heart of the white summer mist lay a green little piece of the world
In the high turret chamber sat the sage
In these restrained and careful times
In the still air the music lies unheard
In the white-flower’d hawthorn brake
In the wild autumn weather, when the rain was on the sea
In this May-month, by grace
In thy white bosom Love is laid
In torrid heats of late July
Into the Devil tavern
I rested on the breezy height
I rise in the dawn, and I kneel and blow
I sat at Berne, and watched the chain
I sat beside the streamlet
I sat unsphering Plato ere I slept
I sat upon a windy mountain height
I sat with Doris, the shepherd-maiden
I saw a new world in my dream
I saw a poor old woman on the bench
I saw in dreams a mighty multitude
I saw, I saw the lovely child
I Saw old Autumn in the misty morn
I saw old Time, destroyer of mankind
I saw Time in his workshop carving faces
I see him sit, wild-eyed, alone
I see thee pine like her in golden story
I send my heart up to thee, all my heart
I sit beside my darling’s grave
Is it not better at an early hour
Is n’t this Joseph’s son?
I sought to hold her, but within her eyes
I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he
Is this the man by whose decree abide
I still keep open Memory’s chamber: still
I stood to hear that bold
I strove with none, for none was worth my strife
Italia, mother of the souls of men
It hardly seems that he is dead
I think a stormless night-time shall ensue
I think on thee in the night
I thought it was the little bed
I thought of death beside the lonely sea
I thought once how Theocritus had sung
It is buried and done with
It is the season now to go
It little profits that an idle king
It may be we shall know in the hereafter
It once might have been, once only
I too remember, in the after years
Its masts of might, its sails so free
It was a day of sun and rain
It was her first sweet child, her heart’s delight
It was not in the winter
It was the calm and silent night!
I ’ve taught thee Love’s sweet lesson o’er
I, Virgin of the Snows, have liv’d
I wadna gi’e my ain wife
I wander’d by the brook-side
I was an English shell
I was a wandering sheep
I watch’d her as she stoop’d to pluck
I went a roaming through the woods alone
I will not have the mad Clytie
I will not let thee go
I will not rail, or grieve when torpid eld
I worship thee, sweet will of God!
I would I had thy courage, dear, to face
I would not, could I, make thy life as mine
I would not give my Irish wife
I would that we were, my beloved, white birds on the foam of the sea
I write. He sits beside my chair
I write. My mother was a Florentine
I wrought them like a targe of hammered gold
 
Jesus, I my cross have taken
Just as I am, without one plea
Just for a handful of silver he left us
Juxtaposition, in fine; and what is juxtaposition?
 
Kathleen Mavourneen! the gray dawn is breaking
Keen was the air, the sky was very light
Kentish Sir Byng stood for his King
King Charles, and who ’ll do him right now?
 
Lady Alice, Lady Louise
Lady and gentlemen fays, come buy!
Lady Anne Dewhurst on a crimson couch
Last April, when the winds had lost their chill
Last night, among his fellow roughs
Last night the nightingale waked me
Lay me low, my work is done
Lead, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom
Lead us, heavenly Father, lead us
Leave me a little while alone
Let me at last be laid
Let me be with thee where thou art
Lie still, old Dane, below thy heap!
Life and Thought have gone away
Life’s not our own,—’t is but a loan
Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet
Light words they were, and lightly, falsely said
Like a huge Python, winding round and round
Like a musician that with flying finger
Like crown’d athlete that in a race has run
Like souls that balance joy and pain
Lily on liquid roses floating
Little harp, at thy cry
Little Lettice is dead, they say
Lo, as some bard on isles of the Aegean
Lo, I am weary of all
Long ago, on a bright spring day
Long night succeeds thy little day
Long years their cabin stood
Look at me with thy large brown eyes
Look in my face; my name is Might-have-been
Lord Cæsar, when you sternly wrote
Lord, for to-morrow and its needs
Lord, in thy name thy servants plead
Loud roared the tempest
Love, by that loosened hair
Love held a harp between his hands, and, lo!
Love in my heart: oh, heart of me, heart of me!
Love not, love not! ye hapless sons of clay!
Love’s priestess, mad with pain and joy of song
Love took my life and thrill’d it
Love we the warmth and light of tropic lands
Lo, what a golden day it is!
Lo! where the four mimosas blend their shade
Low, like another’s, lies the laurelled head
 
Maidens, kilt your skirts and go
Make me over, mother April
Make thyself known, Sibyl, or let despair
Make way, my lords! for Death now once again
Man is permitted much
Many a hearth upon our dark globe sighs after many a vanish’d face
Many love music but for music’s sake
Marian Drury, Marian Drury
Mellow the moonlight to shine is beginning
Melpomene among her livid people
Methinks the soul within the body held
Methought, as I beheld the rookery pass
Methought the stars were blinking bright
Mid April seemed like some November day
Mistress of gods and men! I have been thine
Monsieur the Curé down the street
Mother, I cannot mind my wheel
Mother wept, and father sigh’d
Move me that jasmine further from the bed
Mowers, weary and brown, and blithe
My body sleeps: my heart awakes
My days are full of pleasant memories
My fairest child, I have no song to give you
My Fair, no beauty of thine will last
My first thought was, he lied in every word
My God (oh, let me call thee mine
My good blade carves the casques of men
My hero is na deck’d wi’ gowd
My hopes retire; my wishes as before
My life ebbs from me—I must die
My little boy at Christmastide
My little dear, so fast asleep
My little love, do you remember
My little son, who look’d from thoughtful eyes
My Lord Tomnoddy’s the son of an Earl
My love and I among the mountains strayed
My Love dwelt in a Northern land
My love he went to Burdon Fair
My masters twain made me a bed
My own!
My roof is hardly picturesque
My soul, asleep between its body throes
My times are in thy hand!
 
Nae shoon to hide her tiny taes
Naiads, and ye pastures cold
Nancy Dawson, Nancy Dawson
Nature, a jealous mistress, laid him low
Nature and he went ever hand in hand
Nay, Death, thou art a shadow! Even as light
Nearer, my God, to thee
Near where yonder evening star
News to the king, good news for all
Nineteen! of years a pleasant number
No coward soul is mine
No, my own love of other years!
None ever climbed to mountain height of song
Nor force nor fraud shall sunder us! O ye
No sleep like hers, no rest
Not a sound disturbs the air
Not I myself know all my love for thee
Not ’mid the thunder of the battle guns
Not only that thy puissant arm could bind
Not on the neck of prince or hound
Not yet, dear love, not yet: the sun is high
Now dumb is he who waked the world to speak
Now glory to the Lord of hosts, from whom all glories are!
Now hands to seed-sheet, boys!
Now has the lingering month at last gone by
Now heap the branchy barriers up
Now, sitting by her side, worn out with weeping
Now the day is over
Now the rite is duly done
Now this is the law of the jungle, as old and as true as the sky

CONTENTS · BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

  PREVIOUS NEXT  
 
Loading
Click here to shop the Bartleby Bookstore.

Shakespeare · Bible · Strunk · Anatomy · Nonfiction · Quotations · Reference · Fiction · Poetry
© 1993–2014 Bartleby.com · [Top 150] · Subjects · Titles · Authors