Verse > Anthologies > William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. > Anthology of Magazine Verse for 1920
CONTENTS · BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD
William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. (1878–1962).  Anthology of Magazine Verse for 1920.  1920.
 
Index to First Lines
 
Across the school-ground it would start
A fitting benediction of words
Ah, how I pity the young dead who gave
All night the crickets chirp
A lonely lake, a lonely shore
Although I saw before me there the face
A man may think wild things under the moon
 
Bed is the boon for me!
Bees, go tell the things he treasured
Behind the high white wall
Be quiet, worker in my breast
Boo-shoo! Boo-shoo!
 
Christ said “Mary,” as he walked within the garden
 
Dearest, we are like two flowers
 
Even as a hawk’s in the large heaven’s hollow
Even when all my body sleeps
Every year Emily Dickinson sent one friend
 
Four faces in the dark
 
God has such a splendid way
Gray are the gardens of our Celtic lands
Green golden door, swing in, swing in!
 
He did not know that he was dead
Her eyes are sunlit hazel
Her eyes hold black whips
Her faith abandoned and her place despised
Her footsteps fall in silent sands
Her scant skirt spreads above her knees
How far is it to Babylon?
 
I am a dancer. When I pray
I am afraid to go into the woods
I am weighed down beneath a clustering load
I cannot put you away
I come singing the keen sweet smell of grass
I do not kneel at night, to say a prayer
If I could sing the song of the dawn
If swoops gray-winged across the obliterated hills
If what we fought for seems not worth the fighting
I have made grief a gorgeous, queenly thing
I have on mine no likeness
I have seen this city in the day and the sun
I must have passed the crest a while ago
I never met the Spring alone before
In the dark night I heard a stirring
I saw by looking in his eyes
I slumbered with your poems on my breast
It’s just a heap of ruin
It’s little I care what path I take
I’ve brung you my three babes, that lost their Maw a year ago
I walked my fastest down the twilight street
I watch the farmers in their fields
I, who fade with the lilacs
I, who laughed my youth away
 
Let it be forgotten, as a flower is forgotten
Let the ghost of the brave be carried away
Light your cigarette, then, in this shadow
Like wine grown stale, the street-lamp’s pallor seeks
Lilith, Lilith wept for the moon
Lot 65: John Keats to Fanny Brawne
Love, we have dipped Life’s humble bread
 
Make of my voice a blue-edged Sword, Oh, Lord!
Maximilian Marvelous,” we called him for a joke
Men know that the birch-tree always
Men who have loved the ships they took to sea
My arms were always quiet
 
Not all flowers have souls
Nothing to say to all those marriages!
Now that the gods are gone
 
Observant of the way she told
O Earth you are too dear to-night
Of finest porcelain and of choicest dye
Off the long headland, threshed about by round-backed breakers
Oh line of trees all dark and green
Oh, the lives of men, lives of men
O Love, now the herded billows over the holy plain
O, my friend
One night in May in a clear sky
On the cord dead hangs our sister
Ou! Ou! Ou!
 
People that build their houses inland
 
Red wreaths
 
Saddle me up the Zebra Dun
Searching my heart for its true sorrow
She said, “Lift high the cup!”
She wore purple, and when other people slept
Stiff in midsummer green, the stolid hillsides
Strange that she can keep with ease
Suddenly flickered a flame
 
The dust is thick along the road
The lawyers, Bob, know too much
The pomp of capitals long left to rust
There will be rose and rhododendron
The Roman wall was not more grave than this
The roses and vines and the tall, straight, delicate poplars
The sound of rustling silk is stilled
The sun shines bright in many places
The transports move stealthily to sea
The ways of the world are a-coming—up Cyarr!
The white-walled Rome of an unwritten epic
The wood is talking in its sleep
The world is wasted with fire and sword
They said someone was waiting
They stormed the forts of Nature
They that dwell in shadow
This festal day, two thousand times returning
Three school-girls pass this way each day
To Bombay and Capetown, and ports of a hundred lands
Trees need not walk the earth
Two of Thy children one summer day worked in their garden, Lord
 
We are the deathless dreamers of the world
We are walking with the month
What are the Islands to me
What do I care, in the dreams and the languor of spring
What is dust?
When my young Soul went first to ride
When you and I are laid away
 
Yes, I’ve sev’ral kivers you can see
You loved the hay in the meadow
Your hot voice sizzles from some cool tree near by
You sent me a sprig of mignonette
You talk of this and that, of that and this

CONTENTS · BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

 
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