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
“It seemed to be”
to “Runs the wind”


It seemed to be but chance, yet who shall say
It settles softly on your things
It sings to me in sunshine
It ’s only we, Grimalkin, both fond and fancy free
It trembled off the keys,—a parting kiss
It was a Sergeant old and gray
It was a still autumnal day
It was but yesterday, my love, thy little heart beat high
It was Christmas Eve in the year fourteen
It was many and many a year ago
It was nothing but a rose I gave her
I ’ve borne full many a sorrow, I ’ve suffered many a loss
I waked; the sun was in the sky
I walked beside the evening sea
I wanted you when skies were red
I warn, like the one drop of rain
I was asking for something specific and perfect for my city
I was with Grant”—the stranger said
I watch her in the corner there
I watch the leaves that flutter in the wind
I weep those dead lips, white and dry
I went to dig a grave for Love
I will not look for him, I will not hear
I wish I were the little key
I wish that I could have my wish to-night
I won a noble fame
I wonder, dear, if you had been
I would I had been island-born
I would not live alway—live alway below!
I would unto my fair restore
I write my name as one
I wrote some lines once on a time
 
Jeannie Marsh of Cherry Valley
Jesus, there is no dearer name than thine
Jubilant the music through the fields a-ringing
Just as the spring came laughing through the strife
Just ere the darkness is withdrawn
Just when each bed was big with bloom
Just where the Treasury’s marble front
 
Keep back the one word more
Keep me, I pray, in wisdom’s way
King Solomon stood in the house of the Lord
Kiss me but once, and in that space supreme
Know I not who thou mayst be
 
Lady, there is a hope that all men have
Land of unconquered Pelayo! land of the Cid Campeador!
Last night Alicia wore a Tuscan bonnet
Last night, when my tired eyes were shut with sleep
Launched upon ether float the worlds secure
Lay me down beneaf de willers in de grass
Lean close and set thine ear against the bark
Leap to the highest height of spring
Lear and Cordelia! ’t was an ancient tale
Lend me thy fillet, Love!
Les morts vont vite! Ay, for a little space
Let hammer on anvil ring
Let me come in where you sit weeping
Life of Ages, richly poured
Lighter than dandelion down
Light of dim mornings; shield from heat and cold
Light-winged Smoke! Icarian bird
Like as the lark that, soaring higher and higher
Like Crusoe with the bootless gold we stand
Like some great pearl from out the Orient
Like to a coin, passing from hand to hand
Like to the leaf that falls
List to that bird! His song—what poet pens it?
Little Haly! Little Haly!” cheeps the robin in the tree
Little, I ween, did Mary guess
Little masters, hat in hand
Little Orphant Annie ’s come to our house to stay
Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown
Lo! above the mournful chanting
Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
Lofty against our Western dawn uprises Achilles
Lonely and cold and fierce I keep my way
Long has the summer sunlight shone
Long hours we toiled up through the solemn wood
Long I followed happy guides
Long, long before the Babe could speak
Look how it sparkles, see it greet
Look on this cast, and know the hand
Look out upon the stars, my love
Look up,” she said; and all the heavens blazed
Lo! through a shadowy valley
Lo! ’t is a gala night
Love must be a fearsome thing
Love your neighbor as yourself
Low-anchored cloud
 
Many things thou hast given me, dear heart
Mark me how still I am!—The sound of feet
Master of human destinies am I!
Maud Muller on a summer’s day
Memory cannot linger long
Men of the North, look up!
Men say the sullen instrument
Methinks the measure of a man is not
Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam
Mid the flower-wreathed tombs I stand
Mid the white spouses of the Sacred Heart
Mimi, do you remember
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord
Misfortune to have lived not knowing thee!
Misshapen, black, unlovely to the sight
More shy than the shy violet
Most men know love but as a part of life
Mother of nations, of them eldest we
Much have I spoken of the faded leaf
Mute, sightless visitant
My absent daughter—gentle, gentle maid
My body answers you, my blood
My body, eh? Friend Death, how now?
My boy Kree?
My brigantine!
My chile? Lord, no, she ’s none o’ mine
My Christmas gifts were few: to one
My country, ’t is of thee
My Dearling!—thus, in days long fled
My faith looks up to Thee
My foe was dark, and stern, and grim
My highway is unfeatured air
My life is like a stroll upon the beach
My life is like the summer rose
My little girl is nested
My little Mädchen found one day
My little neighbor’s table ’s set
My little one begins his feet to try
My love leads the white bulls to sacrifice
My Love too stately is to be but fair
My mind lets go a thousand things
My mother says I must not pass
My prow is tending toward the west
Myriads of motley molecules through space
My short and happy day is done
My son, thou wast my heart’s delight
My soul to-day
My window is the open sky
 
Nae shoon to hide her tiny taes
Nature reads not our labels, “great” and “small
Near strange, weird temples, where the Ganges’ tide
Near the lake where drooped the willow
Never a beak has my white bird
Never yet was a springtime
New England’s dead! New England’s dead!
Nigger mighty happy w’en he layin’ by co’n
Night after night we dauntlessly embark
Nigh to a grave that was newly made
No freeman, saith the wise, thinks much on death
No life in earth, or air, or sky
No more the battle or the chase
No! No!
No, no, I well remember—proofs, you said
No, not in the halls of the noble and proud
No one could tell me where my Soul might be
Not as when some great Captain falls
Not by the ball or brand
Not drowsihood and dreams and mere idless
Not from the whole wide world I chose thee
Not in the sky
Not in the world of light alone
Not least, ’t is ever my delight
Not lips of mine have ever said
Not merely for our pleasure, but to purge
Not midst the lightning of the stormy fight
Not mine to draw the cloth-yard shaft
Not on a prayerless bed, not on a prayerless bed
Not trust you, dear? Nay, ’t is not true
Not with slow, funereal sound
Not ye who have stoned, not ye who have smitten us
Now all the cloudy shapes that float and lie
Now all the flowers that ornament the grass
Now are the winds about us in their glee
Now Camilla’s fair fingers are plucking in rapture the pulsating strings
Now comes the graybeard of the north
Now dandelions in the short, new grass
Now England lessens on my sight
Now for a brisk and cheerful fight!
Now half a hundred years had I been born
Now I lay me down to sleep
Now is the cherry in blossom, Love
Now, on a sudden, I know it, the secret, the secret of life
Now since mine even is come at last
Now Summer finds her perfect prime
Now the frosty stars are gone
 
Oak leaves are big as the mouse’s ear
O bird, thou dartest to the sun
O brother Planets, unto whom I cry
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done
O child, had I thy lease of time! such unimagined things
O curfew of the setting sun! O Bells of Lynn!
O dappled throat of white! Shy, hidden bird!
O dawn upon me slowly, Paradise!
O destined Land, unto thy citadel
O earth! art thou not weary of thy graves?
O Earth! thou hast not any wind that blows
O’er a low couch the setting sun had thrown its latest ray
O’er the wet sands an insect crept
O’er the yellow crocus on the lawn
O fairest of the rural maids!
Of all the rides since the birth of time
Of all the souls that stand create
O far-off darling in the South
O far-off rose of long ago
Of heavenly stature, but most human smile
O flower of passion, rocked by balmy gales
Of old, a man who died
O fountain of Bandusia!
O friends! with whom my feet have trod
Often I think of the beautiful town
Oft have I stood upon the foaming strand
O gallant brothers of the generous South
O God, our Father, if we had but truth!
O God, thy moon is on the hills
O gold Hyperion, love-lorn Porphyro
O, have you been in Gudbrand’s dale, where Laagen’s mighty flood
Oh, band in the pine-wood, cease!
Oh, be not ether-borne, poet of earth
Oh, did you see him riding down
O hearken, all ye little weeds
Oh, frame some little word for me
Oh, I am weary of a heart that brings
Oh, it ’s twenty gallant gentlemen
Oh! little loveliest lady mine
Oh mother of a mighty race
Oh, the wind from the desert blew in!
Oh, what a night for a soul to go!
Oh, what a set of Vagabundos
Oh, what ’s the way to Arcady
O, it is great for our country to die, where ranks are contending!
O joy of creation
O keeper of the Sacred Key
Old Horace on a summer afternoon
Old man never had much to say
Old soldiers true, ah, them all men can trust
Old wine to drink!
O lend to me, sweet nightingale
O let me die a-singing!
O lifted face of mute appeal!
O li’l’ lamb out in de col
O little buds, break not so fast!
O little town of Bethlehem
O living image of eternal youth!
O lonesome sea-gull, floating far
O Love Divine, that stooped to share
O love, so sweet at first
Olympian sunlight is the Poet’s sphere
On a green slope, most fragrant with the spring
On an olive-crested steep
Once before, this self-same air
Once hoary Winter chanced—alas!
Once I knew a fine song
Once I saw mountains angry
Once more, once more, my Mary dear
Once this soft turf, this rivulet ’s sands
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary
Once when the wind was on the roof
One calm and cloudless winter night
One day between the Lip and the Heart
One day I saw a ship upon the sands
One day there entered at my chamber door
One elf, I trow, is diving now
One night I lay asleep in Africa
One sat within a hung and lighted room
One shadow glides from the dumb shore
One steed I have of common clay
One sweetly solemn thought
On hoary Conway’s battlemented height
O nightingale, the poet’s bird
On Kingston Bridge the starlight shone
Only to find Forever, blest
On scent of game from town to town he flew
On softest pillows my dim eyes unclose
On the road, the lonely road
On the wide veranda white
On woodlands ruddy with autumn
On your bare rocks, O barren moors
O pitying angel, pause, and say
O poet rare and old!
O pour upon my soul again
O power of Love, O wondrous mystery!
O ruddy Lover
O say, can you see, by the dawn’s early light
O Say, my flattering heart
O steadfast trees that know
O tenderly the haughty day
O thorn-crowned Sorrow, pitiless and stern
O thou great Movement of the Universe
O Thou great Wrong, that, through the slow-paced years
O to lie in long grasses!
O touch me not, unless thy soul
Our eyeless bark sails free
Our fathers’ God! from out whose hand
Our many years are made of clay and cloud
Our Mother, loved of all thy sons
Our share of night to bear
Out in the dark it throbs and glows
Out in the misty moonlight
Out of a cavern on Parnassus’ side
Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass
Out of the cradle endlessly rocking
Out of the dusk a shadow
Out of the focal and foremost fire
Out of the heart there flew a little singing bird
Out of the hills of Habersham
Out of the mighty Yule log came
Out of the old house, Nancy—moved up into the new
Out where the sky and the sky-blue sea
Overloaded, undermanned
Over our heads the branches made
Over the dim confessional cried
Over their graves rang once the bugle’s call
Over the plains where Persian hosts
O, when I hear at sea
O white and midnight sky! O starry bath!
O white, white, light moon, that sailest in the sky
O, whither sail you, Sir John Franklin?
O woman, let thy heart not cleave
O ye sweet heavens! your silence is to me
O ye who see with other eyes than ours
 
Pale beryl sky, with clouds
Pale, climbing disk, who dost lone vigil keep
Pallid with too much longing
People’s Attorney, servant of the Right!
Poet! I come to touch thy lance with mine
Poet of the Pulpit, whose full-chorded lyre
Poor Creature! nay, I ’ll not say poor
Praise ye the Lord!” The psalm to-day
Pray for the dead—who bids thee not?
Priest of God, unto thee I come
Prime cantante!
Proud, languid lily of the sacred Nile
Puffed up with luring to her knees
Put every tiny robe away!
Put them in print?
 
Quiet as are the quiet skies
 
Read me no moral, priest, upon my life
Read out the names!” and Burke sat back
Regent of song! who bringest to our shore
Reluctantly I laid aside my smiles
Restless, to-night, and ill at ease
Rockaby, lullaby, bees in the clover!
Rocked in the cradle of the deep
Roll out, O song to God!
Roman and Jew upon one level lie
Romancer, far more coy than that coy sex!
Room for a soldier! lay him in the clover
Roses and butterflies snared on a fan
Rough pasture where the blackberries grow!
Round among the quiet graves
Round de meadows am a-ringing
Runs the wind along the waste

CONTENTS · BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

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