Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900.

Index of First Lines

I am that which began to My true love hath my heart, and I have his

I am that which began I am! yet what I am who cares, or knows? I arise from dreams of thee I ask no kind return of love I came into the City and none knew me I cannot change as others do I cannot eat but little meat Ichot a burde in boure bryht I’d a dream to-night I dare not ask a kiss I did but look and love awhile I did not choose thee, dearest. It was Love I do confess thou’rt smooth and fair I do not love thee!—no! I do not love thee! I dream’d that, as I wander’d by the way I dug, beneath the cypress shade I’d wed you without herds, without money or rich array If all the world and love were young If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song If doughty deeds my lady please I feed a flame within, which so torments me If I had thought thou couldst have died If I were dead, you’d sometimes say, Poor Child! I flung me round him If rightly tuneful bards decide If the quick spirits in your eye If the red slayer think he slays If there were dreams to sell If thou must love me, let it be for naught If thou wilt ease thine heart If to be absent were to be If you go over desert and mountain I got me flowers to straw Thy way I have a mistress, for perfections rare I have had playmates, I have had companions I intended an Ode I know a little garden-close I know a thing that ‘s most uncommon I know my soul hath power to know all things I left thee last, a child at heart I long have had a quarrel set with Time I loved a lass, a fair one I loved him not; and yet now he is gone I loved thee once; I’ll love no more I made another garden, yea I mind me in the days departed I’m sittin’ on the stile, Mary I must not think of thee; and, tired yet strong I’m wearin’ awa’, John I, my dear, was born to-day In a drear-nighted December In after days when grasses high In a harbour grene aslepe whereas I lay In a quiet water’d land, a land of roses In a valley of this restles mind In Clementina’s artless mien Indian weed witherèd quite In going to my naked bed as one that would have slept In Scarlet town, where I was born In somer when the shawes be sheyne In the hall the coffin waits, and the idle armourer stands In the highlands, in the country places In the hour of death, after this life’s whim In the hour of my distress In the merry month of May Into the silver night Into the skies, one summer’s day In Xanadu did Kubla Khan I play’d with you ‘mid cowslips blowing I pray thee, leave, love me no more Irresponsive silence of the land I said—Then, dearest, since ’tis so I saw fair Chloris walk alone I saw my Lady weep I saw old Autumn in the misty morn I saw where in the shroud did lurk I sent a ring—a little band I sing of a maiden Is it so small a thing Isles of Greece! the isles of Greece I strove with none, for none was worth my strife I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless It fell about the Martinmas It fell in the ancient periods It fell on a day, and a bonnie simmer day I that in heill was and gladnèss I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide I thought once how Theocritus had sung I thought to meet no more, so dreary seem’d It is a beauteous evening, calm and free It is an ancient Mariner It is not, Celia, in our power It is not death, that sometime in a sigh It is not growing like a tree It is not to be thought of that the flood It is the miller’s daughter I took my heart in my hand I travell’d among unknown men Its edges foam’d with amethyst and rose It was a dismal and a fearful night It was a’ for our rightfu’ King It was a lover and his lass It was many and many a year ago It was not in the Winter It was not like your great and gracious ways! It was the Winter wilde I’ve heard them lilting at our ewe-milking I wander’d lonely as a cloud I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree I will make you brooches and toys for your delight I wish I were where Helen lies I, with whose colours Myra dress’d her head Jenny kiss’d me when we met John anderson, my jo, John King sits in Dunfermline town Know, Celia, since thou art so proud Ladies, though to your conquering eyes Lady Mary Villiers lies Lark now leaves his wat’ry nest Last and greatest Herald of Heaven’s King Late at een, drinkin’ the wine Lawrence of vertuous Father vertuous Son Lay a garland on my herse Leave me, O Love, which reachest but to dust Leaves are falling; so am I Lenten ys come with love to toune Lestenyt, lordynges, both elde and yinge Let me go forth, and share Let me not to the marriage of true minds Let the bird of loudest lay Let us drink and be merry, dance, joke, and rejoice Life! I know not what thou art Like the Idalian queen Like thee I once have stemm’d the sea of life Like to Diana in her summer weed Like to the clear in highest sphere Linnet in the rocky dells London, thou art of townes A per se Long-expected one-and-twenty Look not thou on beauty’s charming Loppèd tree in time may grow again Lo, quhat it is to love Lords, knights, and squires, the numerous band Loud mockers in the roaring street Love bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back Love guards the roses of thy lips Love in fantastic triumph sate Love in my bosom like a bee Love is a sickness full of woes Love is enough: though the World be a-waning Love is the blossom where there blows Lovely lass o’ Inverness Love not me for comely grace Love, thou are absolute, sole Lord Love thy country, wish it well Love wing’d my Hopes and taught me how to fly Man of life upright Marie hamilton ‘s to the kirk gane Mark where the pressing wind shoots javelin-like Martial, the things that do attain Marvel of marvels, if I myself shall behold Mary! I want a lyre with other strings May! Be thou never graced with birds that sing May! queen of blossoms Men grew sae cauld, maids sae unkind Merchant, to secure his treasure Merry Margaret Me so oft my fancy drew Methought I saw my late espousèd Saint Mild is the parting year, and sweet Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour More love or more disdain I crave Mortality, behold and fear! Most glorious Lord of Lyfe! that, on this day Mother of Hermes! and still youthful Maia! Mother, I cannot mind my wheel Moth’s kiss, first! Much have I travell’d in the realms of gold Murmur of the mourning ghost Music, when soft voices die My blood so red My Damon was the first to wake My days among the Dead are past My dear and only Love, I pray My delight and thy delight My faint spirit was sitting in the light My grief on the sea My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My heart is high above, my body is full of bliss My heart is like a singing bird My heart leaps up when I behold My little Son, who look’d from thoughtful eyes My Love in her attire doth show her wit My love is strengthen’d, though more weak in seeming My love o’er the water bends dreaming My lute, awake! perform the last My mother bore me in the southern wild My new-cut ashlar takes the light My noble, lovely, little Peggy My Peggy is a young thing My Phillis hath the morning sun My silks and fine array My soul, sit thou a patient looker-on My soul, there is a country My thoughts hold mortal strife My true love hath my heart, and I have his