Verse > Anthologies > Thomas R. Lounsbury, ed. > Yale Book of American Verse
CONTENTS · BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD
Thomas R. Lounsbury, ed. (1838–1915). Yale Book of American Verse.  1912.
 
Index of First Lines
 
A bird sang sweet and strong
Ah! sad are they who know not love
Ah, be not false, sweet Splendor!
Alas! our pleasant moments fly
A life on the ocean wave
A little peach in the orchard grew
All day to watch the blue wave curl and break
All quiet along the Potomac, they say
All within and all without me
Along A River-Side, I Know Not Where
Along the banks where Babel's current flows
A mile behind is Gloucester town
A mist was driving down the British Channel
And how could you dream of meeting?
At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay
At dawn, he said, I bid them all farewell
A thousand silent years ago
At midnight, in his guarded tent
A very remarkable history this is

Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight
Beautiful! Sir, you may say so. Thar is n't her match in the county
Before the solemn bronze Saint Gaudens made
Beneath the warrior's helm, behold
Beside a stricken field I stood
Birds against the April wind
Boy, I detest the Persian pomp
Burly, dozing humble-bee
By the rude bridge that arched the flood

Calm as that second summer which precedes
Come, let us plant the apple-tree
Come, stack arms, men; pile on the rails
Cooper, whose name is with his country's woven
Could we but know

Darkest, strangest mystery
Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days
Day is done, and the darkness
Dear wife, last midnight, whilst I read
Dearest, a look is but a ray
Despot's heel is on thy shore
Do I like it? I think it just splendid!
Down the world with Marna!
Dow's Flat. That 's its name

Eighty years have passed, and more

Finding Francesca full of tears, I said
For these white arms about my neck
Friend, whose smile has come to be

Gently, Lord, oh, gently lead us
Gingham dog and the calico cat
Give me a pen of steel!
Glooms of the live-oaks, beautiful-braided and woven
God bless the man who first invented sleep!
God makes sech nights, all white an' still
Gone before us, O our brother
Good-night! I have to say good-night
Green be the turf above thee
Groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned
Guvener B. is a sensible man

Hail to the brightness of Zion's glad morning
Handful here, that once was Mary's earth
Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay
Have you not heard the poets tell
Hear the sledges with the bells
Helen, thy beauty is to me
Here falls no light of sun nor stars
Here, Charmian, take my bracelets
He speaks not well who doth his time deplore
High walls and huge the body may confine
Home of the Percys' high-born race
How shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps

I am a woman—therefore I may not
I am dying, Egypt, dying!
I am fevered with the sunset
I am old and blind!
I burn no incense, hang no wreath
I expect you in September
I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness alone
If I were very sure
If the red slayer think he slays
I gazed upon the glorious sky
I have ships that went to sea
I know what you 're going to say, she said
I like a church; I like a cowl
I loved thee long and dearly
I love the old melodious lays
I love thy kingdom, Lord
I love to steal awhile away
I must leave thee, lady sweet!
In fallow college days, Tom Harland
In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes
In the greenest of our valleys
In their ragged regimentals
In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadowlands
Into the Silent Land!
I pray that, risen from the dead
I pray you, do not turn your head
I reside at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James
I saw him once before
I see all human wits
I stand in the cold gray weather
I stood by the open casement
I take my chaperon to the play
It was a tall young oysterman lived by the river-side
It was many and many a year ago
It was the autumn of the year!

Just where the Treasury's marble front

Keep me, I pray, in wisdom's way

Lend me thy fillet, Love!
Let me move slowly through the street
Little gate was reached at last
Long has the summer sunlight shone
Look out upon the stars, my love
Lo! 't is a gala night

Maiden! with the meek, brown eyes
Master of human destinies am I!
Maud Muller, on a summer's day
Melancholy days have come, the saddest of the year
Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord
Miss Blank—at Blank. Jemima, let it go!
Miss Flora M'Flimsey, of Madison Square
Mother of God! as evening falls
Mountain and the squirrel
Muffled drum's sad roll has beat
My aunt! my dear unmarried aunt!
My coachman, in the moonlight there
My faith looks up to Thee
My lady has a tea-gown
Mynheer Hans Von Der Bloom has got
My tower was grimly builded

Nay, weep not, dearest, though the child be dead
Night is dark, and the winter winds
Night was black and drear
Not from the whole wide world I chose thee
Now for a brisk and cheerful fight!
Now, by the blessed Paphian queen

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done
O City that is not a city, unworthy the prefix Atlantic
O days endeared to every Muse
O fair and stately maid, whose eyes
Often I think of the beautiful town
Often when the night is come
Oh, how shall I help to right the world that is going wrong!
Oh mother of a mighty race
Oh, tell me less or tell me more
Oh, what 's the way to Arcady
Old wine to drink!
O listen to the sounding sea
Olor Iscanus queries: "Why should we
O, moonlight deep and tender
O Mother Earth! upon thy lap
Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary
One sweetly solemn thought
O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light
Our band is few but true and tried
Our vales are sweet with fern and rose
Out of the hills of Habersham
Over the river, on the hill
Over the river they beckon to me

Pharaoh, King of Egypt's land
Pines were dark on Ramoth hill
Poor lone Hannah

Qui vive! The sentry's musket rings

Rifleman, shoot me a fancy shot
Rising moon has hid the stars
Rocked in the cradle of the deep
Royal feast was done; the King

Say there! P'r'aps
See, from this counterfeit of him
Shades of night were falling fast
Shadows lay along Broadway
She might have known it in the earlier Spring
She was a beauty in the days
Shines the last age, the next with hope is seen
Short and sweet, and we 've come to the end of it
Since, if you stood by my side to-day
Sing again the song you sung
Sir Orpheus, whom the poets have sung
Skies they were ashen and sober
Sleep sweetly in your humble graves
Slowly the mist o'er the meadow was creeping
So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn
Softly now the light of day
Some of the hurts you have cured
So that soldierly legend is still on its journey
Southrons, hear your Country call you!
Speak! speak! thou fearful guest!
Stand here by my side and turn, I pray
Star-dust and vaporous light
Still her gray rocks tower above the sea
Still thirteen years: 't is autumn now
Sun stepped down from his golden throne

Tell me not, in mournful numbers
T is said that the gods, on Olympus of old
That year? Yes, doubtless I remember still
There are gains for all our losses
There are three ways in which men take
There is a city, builded by no hand
There is an hour of peaceful rest
There is no escape by the river
There is no flock, however watched and tended
They may talk of love in a cottage
They sat and comb'd their beautiful hair
This ancient silver bowl of mine,—it tells of good old times
This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling
This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign
Those black eyes I once so praised
Thou unrelenting Past!
Thou wast all that to me, love
Though love repine, and reason chafe
Three years ago, to-day
Tis fifteen hundred years, you say
To clothe the fiery thought
To him who in the love of Nature holds
To horse, my dear, and out into the night!
To what new fates, my country, far

Under a spreading chestnut tree
Up from the meadows rich with corn
Up from the South at break of day
Up the streets of Aberdeen
Up to her chamber window

Wall, no! I can't tell whar he lives
Weak-winged is song
Weary, oh, so weary
Weave no more silks, ye Lyons looms
We break the glass, whose sacred wine
We count the broken lyres that rest
Well, Helen, quite two years have flown
Well, Miss, I wonder where you live
Were it not for that singular smell
We sing "Our Country's" song to-night
We were not many—we who stood
What shall we do now, Mary being dead
What spiteful chance steals unawares
What was it the Engines said
Wheel me down by the meadow
When a deed is done for Freedom, through the broad earth's aching breast
When descends on the Atlantic
When Freedom from her mountain height
When I was a boy at college
When I was broke in London in the fall of '89
When the hours of Day are numbered
When the veil from the eyes is lifted
When to any saint I pray
When, full of warm and eager love
Which I wish to remark
Whither, midst falling dew
Wild rose of Alloway! my thanks
Within the garden of Beaucaire
Within this lowly grave a Conqueror lies

You say you love me, and you lay
 
CONTENTS · BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD
 
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