Verse > Anthologies > Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. > The Oxford Book of English Verse
Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900.
Index of First Lines
A book of Verses underneath the Bough
Expense of Spirit in a waste of shame
A book of Verses underneath the Bough
Above yon sombre swell of land
Absence, hear thou my protestation
Absent from thee, I languish still
A child 's a plaything for an hour
Accept, thou shrine of my dead saint
Adieu, farewell earth's bliss!
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever
A! Fredome is a noble thing!
A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot!
Ah, Chloris! that I now could sit
Ah, how sweet it is to love!
Ah! were she pitiful as she is fair
Ah, what avails the sceptred race!
Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon
A late lark twitters from the quiet skies
Alexis, here she stay'd; among these pines
Allas! my worthi maister honorable
All are not taken; there are left behind
All holy influences dwell within
All in the April morning
All is best, though we oft doubt
All my past life is mine no more
All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair
All 's over, then: does truth sound bitter
All the flowers of the spring
All the words that I utter
All thoughts, all passions, all delights
All under the leaves and the leaves of life
Amarantha sweet and fair
An ancient chestnut's blossoms threw
And, like a dying lady lean and pale
And wilt thou leave me thus!
Angel spirits of sleep
Angel, king of streaming morn
A plenteous place is Ireland for hospitable cheer
April, April
A rose, as fair as ever saw the North
Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?
As doctors give physic by way of prevention
As I in hoary winter's night
As it fell upon a day
As I was walking all alane
Ask me no more where Jove bestows
Ask me why I send you here
Ask not the cause why sullen Spring
A slumber did my spirit seal
As one that for a weary space has lain
A star is gone! a star is gone!
A sunny shaft did I behold
A sweet disorder in the dress
As those we love decay, we die in part
As we rush, as we rush in the Train
As ye came from the holy land
At her fair hands how have I grace entreated
A thousand martyrs I have made
At the last, tenderly
At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly
Awake, Æolian lyre, awake
Away! away!
Away, delights! go seek some other dwelling
Away! the moor is dark beneath the moon
A weary lot is thine, fair maid

Bacchus must now his power resign
Balow, my babe, lie still and sleep!
Bards of Passion and of Mirth
Beating Heart! we come again
Beautiful must be the mountains whence ye come
Beauty and the life
Beauty clear and fair
Beauty sat bathing by a spring
Behold her, single in the field
Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Be it right or wrong, these men among
Best and brightest, come away!
Bid me to live, and I will live
Blessèd Damozel lean'd out
Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heav'ns joy
Blow, blow, thou winter wind
Blown in the morning, thou shalt fade ere noon
Boat is chafing at our long delay
Bonnie Kilmeny gaed up the glen
Brave flowers—that I could gallant it like you
Breathes there the man with soul so dead
Bright Star, would I were steadfast as thou art
Bring me wine, but wine which never grew
Busy, curious, thirsty fly!
By feathers green, across Casbeen
Bytuene Mershe ant Averil

Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren
Calme was the day, and through the trembling ayre
Calm on the bosom of thy God
Came, on a Sabbath noon, my sweet
Ca' the yowes to the knowes
Ca' the yowes to the knowes
Charm me asleep, and melt me so
Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry
Chloe 's a Nymph in flowery groves
Chough and crow to roost are gone
Christmas knows a merry, merry place
Clerk saunders and may Margaret
Cold in the earth—and the deep snow piled above thee
Come away, come away, death
Come, dear children, let us away
Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height
Come into the garden, Maud
Come, let us now resolve at last
Come little babe, come silly soul
Come live with me and be my Love
Come not in terrors clad, to claim
Come, Sleep, and with thy sweet deceiving
Come, Sleep; O Sleep! the certain knot of peace
Come, spur away
Come then, as ever, like the wind at morning!
Come thou, who are the wine and wit
Come unto these yellow sands
Come, worthy Greek! Ulysses, come
Condemn'd to Hope's delusive mine
Corydon, arise, my Corydon!
Count each affliction, whether light or grave
Crabbèd Age and Youth
Cupid and my Campaspe play'd
Curfew tolls the knell of parting day
Cynthia, to thy power and thee
Cyriack, whose Grandsire on the Royal Bench

Dark, deep, and cold the current flows
Dark to me is the earth. Dark to me are the heavens
Day begins to droop
Day, like our souls, is fiercely dark
Days are sad, it is the Holy tide
Dear Lord, receive my son, whose winning love
Dear love, for nothing less than thee
Death, be not proud, though some have callèd thee
Deep on the convent-roof the snows
Does the road wind uphill all the way?
Do you remember me? or are you proud?
Drink to me only with thine eyes
Drop, drop, slow tears

Earth has not anything to show more fair
E'en like two little bank-dividing brooks
Enough; and leave the rest to Fame!
Even such is Time, that takes in trust
Ever let the Fancy roam
Expense of Spirit in a waste of shame

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