Verse > Anthologies > Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. > An American Anthology, 1787–1900
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CONTENTS · BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD
Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908).  An American Anthology, 1787–1900.  1900.
  
Index to First Lines
“A baby lying”
to “Fit theme for song”


A baby lying on his mother’s breast
A bale-fire kindled in the night
A ball of fire shoots through the tamarack
A beam of light, from the infinite depths of the midnight sky
A bed of ashes and a half-burned brand
A bird in my bower
A bluebird lives in yonder tree
About her head or floating feet
Above them spread a stranger sky
A brave little bird that fears not God
A breath can fan love’s flame to burning
A cheer and salute for the Admiral, and here ’s to the Captain bold
A cloud possessed the hollow field
A cold coiled line of mottled lead
A crazy bookcase, placed before
Across the Eastern sky has glowed
Across the gardens of Life they go
Across the narrow beach we flit
Across the sombre prairie sea
A darkened hut outlined against the sky
A day and then a week passed by
A dead soul lay in the light of day
Adieu, fair isle! I love thy bowers
Adieu, kind Life, though thou hast often been
Admiral, Admiral, sailing home
A Dresden shepherdess was one day
A dryad’s home was once the tree
A flame went flitting through the wood
A fleet with flags arrayed
After all
After an interval, reading, here in the midnight
A giant came to me when I was young
Agnes, thou child of harmony, now fled
A great, still Shape, alone
Ah, be not false, sweet Splendor!
Ah, blessedness of work! the aimless mind
Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever!
Ah, Clemence! when I saw thee last
Ah, Jack it was, and with him little Jill
Ah, June is here, but where is May?
Ah! little flower, upspringing, azure-eyed
Ah me! I know how like a golden flower
Ah, moment not to be purchased
Ah, what can ever be more stately and admirable to me than mast-hemmed Manhattan?
A lady red upon the hill
Alas! that men must see
A life on the ocean wave
A line in long array where they wind betwixt green islands
A little blind girl wandering
A little face there was
A little maid of Astrakan
A little way below her chin
A little way to walk with you, my own
A little while (my life is almost set!)
All day and all day, as I sit at my measureless turning
All day and many days I rode
All day long roved Hiawatha
All day the waves assailed the rock
All hail! thou noble land
All in the leafy darkness, when sleep had passed me by
All night long through the starlit air and the stillness
All quiet along the Potomac,” they say
All up and down in shadow-town
All ye who love the springtime—and who but loves it well
Almost afraid they led her in
Aloft he guards the starry folds
Alone I walked the ocean strand
Along Ancona’s hills the shimmering heat
A long, rich breadth of Holland lace
Along the country roadside, stone on stone
Along the pastoral ways I go
Along the shore the slimy brine-pits yawn
A man by the name of Bolus—(all ’at we ’ll ever know
A man more kindly, in his careless way
A mariner sat on the shrouds one night
Amid the chapel’s chequered gloom
A mighty fortress is our God
A mighty Hand, from an exhaustless Urn
A million little diamonds
A mist was driving down the British Channel
Among the priceless gems and treasures rare
Among the thousand, thousand spheres that roll
Ancient of days, Who sittest, throned in glory
And do our loves all perish with our frames?
And if he should come again
And oh, to think the sun can shine
And this is freedom!” cried the serf
And this is the way the baby woke
And thou art gone, most loved, most honored friend!
And you, Sir Poet, shall you make, I pray
An English lad, who, reading in a book
An heritage of hopes and fears
A night: mysterious, tender, quiet, deep
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky
A noisette on my garden path
An old man in a lodge within a park
Anonymous—nor needs a name
A nymph there was in Arcadie
A pale Italian peasant
A path across a meadow fair and sweet
A peasant stood before a king and said
A pilgrim am I, on my way
A pitcher of mignonette
A poet’s soul has sung its way to God
A poet writ a song of May
A public haunt they found her in
A purple cloud hangs half-way down
A raven sat upon a tree
Are favoring ladies above thee?
A rose’s crimson stain
Around this lovely valley rise
Art thou the same, thou sobbing winter wind?
As a bell in a chime
As a fond mother, when the day is o’er
As a twig trembles, which a bird
As doth his heart who travels far from home
As dyed in blood the streaming vines appear
As flame streams upward, so my longing thought
As I came down from Lebanon
As I came down Mount Tamalpais
A sight in camp in the daybreak gray and dim
A silver birch-tree like a sacred maid
A simple-hearted child was He
As I sit on a log here in the woods among the clean-faced beeches
As I was strolling down a woodland way
A soldier of the Cromwell stamp
As one advances up the slow ascent
As one by one the singers of our land
As one who follows a departing friend
A song lay silent in my pen
A Song! What songs have died
As on the gauzy wings of fancy flying
As some mysterious wanderer of the skies
As the insect from the rock
As the Transatlantic tourists
As the wind at play with a spark
As to a bird’s song she were listening
As we the withered ferns
At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay
At dawn,” he said, I bid them all farewell
At Eutaw Springs the valiant died
A thousand silent years ago
A throat of thunder, a tameless heart
At midnight, in his guarded tent
At midnight, in the month of June
At Shelley’s birth
At table yonder sits the man we seek
At the king’s gate the subtle noon
Autumn was cold in Plymouth town
A viewless thing is the wind
Awake! Awake!
Awake, ye forms of verse divine!
A weapon that comes down as still
A week ago to-day, when red-haired Sally
A whisper woke the air
A white rose had a sorrow
Ay, Dwainie!—My Dwainie!
A year ago how often did I meet
Ay, not at home, then, didst thou say?
A youth in apparel that glittered
Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!
Ay, this is freedom!—these pure skies
Ay! Unto thee belong
Azaleas—whitest of white!
 
Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight
Bathsheba came out to the sun
Battles nor songs can from oblivion save
Beautiful! Sir, you may say so. Thar is n’t her match in the county
Before Him weltered like a shoreless sea
Behind him lay the gray Azores
Behold another singer!” Criton said
Behold, the grave of a wicked man
Behold the portal: open wide it stands
Bend low, O dusky Night
Beneath the burning brazen sky
Beneath the Memnonian shadows of Memphis, it rose from the slime
Beneath the midnight moon of May
Beneath thy spell, O radiant summer sea
Beside her ashen hearth she sate her down
Beside that tent and under guard
Beside the landsman knelt a dame
Between the dark and the daylight
Between the falling leaf and rose-bud’s breath
Between the mountains and the sea
Between the sunken sun and the new moon
Be ye in love with April-tide?
Beyond the bourn of mortal death and birth
Beyond the low marsh-meadows and the beach
Beyond the sea, I know not where
Bind us the Morning, mother of the stars
Black riders came from the sea
Black Tragedy lets slip her grim disguise
Blessings on thee, little man
Blind as the song of birds
Blow softly, thrush, upon the hush
Blue gulf all around us
Blue hills beneath the haze
Bold, amiable, ebon outlaw, grave and wise!
Bowed by the weight of centuries he leans
Boy, I detest these modern innovations
Break forth, break forth, O Sudbury town
Break not his sweet repose
Breathe, trumpets, breathe
Bring me a cup of good red wine
Broad bars of sunset-slanted gold
Broncho Dan halts midway of the stream
Brook, would thou couldst flow
Brother of mine, good monk with cowlëd head
Brown earth-line meets gray heaven
Bugles!
Burly, dozing humble-bee
But do we truly mourn our soldier dead
By the flow of the inland river
By the merest chance, in the twilight gloom
By the rude bridge that arched the flood
By the waters of Life we sat together
By the wayside, on a mossy stone
 
Calling, the heron flies athwart the blue
Calm as that second summer which precedes
Calm Death, God of crossed hands and passionless eyes
Can freckled Auguest,—drowsing warm and blonde
Captain of the Western wood
Carved by a mighty race whose vanished hands
Cast on the water by a careless hand
Channing! my Mentor whilst my thought was young
Child of sin and sorrow
Children, do you ever
Child, weary of thy baubles of to-day
Child with the hungry eyes
City of God, how broad and far
Climbing up the hillside beneath the summer stars
Clime of the brave! the high heart’s home
Close his eyes; his work is done!
Close on the edge of a midsummer dawn
Come a little nearer, Doctor,—thank you,—let me take the cup
Come, all you sailors of the southern waters
Come back and bring my life again
Come, dear old comrade, you and I
Come down, ye graybeard mariners
Come hither and behold this lady’s face
Come, let us plant the apple-tree
Come listen, O Love, to the voice of the dove
Come not again! I dwell with you
Come, on thy swaying feet
Come, Silence, thou sweet reasoner
Come, stack arms, men; pile on the rails
Come to me, angel of the weary hearted!
Come, Walter Savage Landor, come this way
Cooper, whose name is with his country’s woven
Corporal Green!” the Orderly cried
Could but this be brought
Could she come back who has been dead so long
Couldst thou, Great Fairy, give to me
Coward,—of heroic size
 
Dame, how the moments go
Darest thou now, O soul
Darkness and death? Nay, Pioneer, for thee
Dark, thinned, beside the wall of stone
Daughter of Egypt, veil thine eyes!
Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days
Day in melting purple dying
Day of wrath, that day of burning
Days of my youth
Dear, if you love me, hold me most your friend
Dear little Dorothy, she is no more!
Dear Lord! kind Lord!
Dear Lord, thy table is outspread
Dear marshes, by no hand of man
Dear singer of our fathers’ day
Dear, when you see my grave
Dear wife, last midnight, whilst I read
Death could not come between us two
Death in this tomb his weary bones hath laid
Death ’s but one more to-morrow. Thou art gray
Death, thou ’rt a cordial old and rare
Deep in a Rose’s glowing heart
Deep in the heart of the forest the lily of Yorrow is growing
Deep in the wave is a coral grove
De gray owl sing fum de chimbly top
Delayed till she had ceased to know
De massa ob de sheepfol
Did Chaos form,—and water, air, and fire
Dimpled and flushed and dewy pink he lies
Disguise upon disguise, and then disguise
Dismiss your apprehension, pseudo bard
Divinely shapen cup, thy lip
Dixon, a Choctaw, twenty years of age
Does the pearl know, that in its shade and sheen
Don Juan has ever the grand old air
Do not waste your pity, friend
Don’t you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt
Dost deem him weak that owns his strength is tried?
Down from a sunken doorstep to the road
Down in a garden olden
Down in the bleak December bay
Down the long hall she glistens like a star
Down the world with Marna!
Do you fear the force of the wind
Do you remember, my sweet, absent son
Drink! drink! to whom shall we drink?
Dumb Mother of all music, let me rest
 
Each golden note of music greets
Each of us is like Balboa: once in all our lives do we
Edith, the silent stars are coldly gleaming
Eileen of four
Enamoured architect of airy rhyme
Enchantress, touch no more that strain!
En garde, Messieurs, too long have I endured
England, I stand on thy imperial ground
Ere last year’s moon had left the sky
Ere yet in Vergil I could scan or spell
Ermine or blazonry, he knew them not
Even as tender parents lovingly
Even at their fairest still I love the less
 
Faint, faint and clear
Fair are the flowers and the children, but their subtle suggestion is fairer
Fair flower, that dost so comely grow
Fair is each budding thing the garden shows
Fair lady with the bandaged eye!
Fair Roslin Chapel, how divine
Fair star, new-risen to our wondering eyes
Fairy spirits of the breeze
Fallen? How fallen? States and empires fall
Farewell, my more than fatherland!
Far, far away, beyond a hazy height
Far-off a young State rises, full of might
Farragut, Farragut
Far up the lonely mountain-side
Fasten the chamber!
Fathered by March, the daffodils are here
Father, I scarcely dare to pray
Father, I will not ask for wealth or fame
Father of lakes!” thy waters bend
Father! whose hard and cruel law
Few, in the days of early youth
Few men of hero-mould
Fierce burns our fire of driftwood; overhead
Fifty leagues, fifty leagues—and I ride, and I ride
Finding Francesca full of tears, I said
Fit theme for song, the sylvan maid

CONTENTS · BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

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