Verse > Anthologies > Louis Untermeyer, ed. > Modern British Poetry
CONTENTS · BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD
Louis Untermeyer, ed. (1885–1977). Modern British Poetry.  1920.
 
Index of First Lines
 
Ah, London! London! our delight
A late lark twitters from the quiet skies
A letter from my love to-day!
A little flock of clouds go down to rest
All in the April morning
Amid this hot green glowing gloom
And then I pressed the shell
And will you cut a stone for him
April, April
A Queen was beloved by a jester
As a white candle
As one, at midnight, wakened by the call
A voice peals in this end of night

Balkis was in her marble town
Beautiful lie the dead
Beautiful must be the mountains whence ye come
Before I joined the Army
Behold me waiting—waiting for the knife
Beyond my window in the night
Bring Kateen-beug and Maurya Jude
Bugler sent a call of high romance
By the lamplit stall I loitered, feasting my eyes

Carol, every violet has
City's heat is like a leaden pall

Day begins to droop
Dear, they are praising your beauty
Door of Heaven is on the latch
Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet
Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand mile away
Driver rubbed at his nettly chin

Eve, with her basket, was

Facing the guns, he jokes as well
Far up the dim twilight fluttered
Father of the thunder
For Mercy, Courage, Kindness, Mirth
For thee, I shall not die
Free to all souls the hidden beauty calls
From its blue vase the rose of evening drops

God dreamed a man
Go from me: I am one of those who fall
Grand road from the mountain goes shining to the sea
Great gold apples of light
Great is the sun, and wide he goes
Groping along the tunnel, step by step

Had he and I but met
Have you forgotten yet?
He came and took me by the hand
Here is the soundless cypress on the lawn
Here lies a most beautiful lady
Here's an example from
How could I love you more?
How like her! But 'tis she herself
Hunchèd camels of the night

I am the mountainy singer
I am the torch, she saith, and what to me
I do not think that skies and meadows are
I dreamed last night of a dome of beaten gold
I have grown tired of sorrow and human tears
I fear to love thee, Sweet, because
If I had peace to sit and sing
If I should die, think only this of me
If I should ever by chance grow rich
If suddenly a clod of earth should rise
I hear an army charging upon the land
I have been so great a lover: filled my days
I have seen old ships sail like swans asleep
I know a green grass path that leaves the field
I laid me down upon the shore
I'm a lean dog, a keen dog, a wild dog, and lone
I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky
In a fair place
I never see the newsboys run
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
In the secret Valley of Silence
In wiser days, my darling rosebud, blown
I rise in the dawn, and I kneel and blow
I saw God. Do you doubt it?
I saw the spires of Oxford
I stand alone through each long day
I should like to imagine
Is love, then, so simple my dear?
Is there a great green commonwealth of Thought
Is there anybody there? said the Traveller
I turn the page and read
Its edges foamed with amethyst and rose
It's hard to know if you're alive or dead
It was a bowl of roses
It was the good ship Billycock
I was so chill, and overworn, and sad
I will arise and go hence to the west
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree
I will make you brooches and toys for your delight

Kings go by with jewelled crowns

Last night a sword-light in the sky
Late lies the wintry sun a-bed
Let me go forth, and share
Like a gondola of green scented fruits
Little angels of Heaven
London, my beautiful
Look at my knees
Loveliest of trees, the cherry now

Mountains, and the lonely death at last
Moving sun-shapes on the spray
My arms are round you, and I lean
My dead love came to me, and said

Nearer and ever nearer
Nightingale has a lyre of gold
Not of the princes and prelates with periwigged charioteers
Now very quietly, and rather mournfully

O frankly bald and obviously stout!
Of the old house, only a few crumbled
Oh, I be vun of the useful troibe
One asked of regret
Only a man harrowing clods
Only a starveling singer seeks
O silver-throated Swan
O, to have a little house!
Out of the night that covers me
Out of the wood of thoughts that grows by night

Peace is declared, and I return
Poor Mary Byrne is dead
Poor tired Tim! It's sad for him.

Return to greet me, colours that were my joy

Saints have adored the lofty soul of you
Sherwood in the twilight, is Robin Hood awake?
Since man has been articulate
So faint, no ear is sure it hears
Softly along the road of evening
Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me
Soldiers are citizens of death's gray land
So, without overt breach, we fall apart
Sunset and silence!

Tall nettles cover up, as they have done
Tattered outlaw of the earth
Thames nocturne of blue and gold
Then came the cry of "Call all hands on deck!"
There is a dish to hold the sea
There is no wrath in the stars
There's a barrel-organ carolling across a golden street
There they stand, on their ends, the fifty faggots
These be the little verses, rough and uncultured
They left the fury of the fight
This is the end of him, here he lies
This is the image of my last content
This much, O heaven—if I should brood or rave
Thy beauty haunts me heart and soul
Time, you old gipsy man
Time you won your town the race
Tossed on the glittering air they soar and skim
To the Heavens above us
Tread lightly, she is near

Under the wide and starry sky

Wake: the silver dusk returning
We are the music-makers
What a grudge I am bearing the earth
What thing shall be held up to woman's beauty?
When a dream is born in you
When flighting time is on, I go
When I am living in the Midlands
When in the mines of dark and silent thought
When I was but thirteen or so
When I was one-and-twenty
When primroses are out in Spring
When Susan's work was done, she'd sit
When the flush of a newborn sun fell first
When the white flame in us is gone
Where am I from? From the green hills of Erin
Where the thistle lifts a purple crown
White founts falling in the Courts of the sun
While joy gave clouds the light of stars
With delicate, mad hands, behind his sordid bars
Within your magic web of hair, lies furled
With rue my heart is laden

You are blind like us. Your hurt no man designed
You may talk o' gin an' beer
Youth's for an hour
You would have understood me, had you waited
 
CONTENTS · BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD
 
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