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
I am that which began
My true love hath my heart, and I have his
I am that which began
I am! yet what I am who cares, or knows?
I arise from dreams of thee
I ask no kind return of love
I came into the City and none knew me
I cannot change as others do
I cannot eat but little meat
Ichot a burde in boure bryht
I'd a dream to-night
I dare not ask a kiss
I did but look and love awhile
I did not choose thee, dearest. It was Love
I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair
I do not love thee!—no! I do not love thee!
I dream'd that, as I wander'd by the way
I dug, beneath the cypress shade
I'd wed you without herds, without money or rich array
If all the world and love were young
If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song
If doughty deeds my lady please
I feed a flame within, which so torments me
If I had thought thou couldst have died
If I were dead, you'd sometimes say, Poor Child!
I flung me round him
If rightly tuneful bards decide
If the quick spirits in your eye
If the red slayer think he slays
If there were dreams to sell
If thou must love me, let it be for naught
If thou wilt ease thine heart
If to be absent were to be
If you go over desert and mountain
I got me flowers to straw Thy way
I have a mistress, for perfections rare
I have had playmates, I have had companions
I intended an Ode
I know a little garden-close
I know a thing that 's most uncommon
I know my soul hath power to know all things
I left thee last, a child at heart
I long have had a quarrel set with Time
I loved a lass, a fair one
I loved him not; and yet now he is gone
I loved thee once; I'll love no more
I made another garden, yea
I mind me in the days departed
I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary
I must not think of thee; and, tired yet strong
I'm wearin' awa', John
I, my dear, was born to-day
In a drear-nighted December
In after days when grasses high
In a harbour grene aslepe whereas I lay
In a quiet water'd land, a land of roses
In a valley of this restles mind
In Clementina's artless mien
Indian weed witherèd quite
In going to my naked bed as one that would have slept
In Scarlet town, where I was born
In somer when the shawes be sheyne
In the hall the coffin waits, and the idle armourer stands
In the highlands, in the country places
In the hour of death, after this life's whim
In the hour of my distress
In the merry month of May
Into the silver night
Into the skies, one summer's day
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
I play'd with you 'mid cowslips blowing
I pray thee, leave, love me no more
Irresponsive silence of the land
I said—Then, dearest, since 'tis so
I saw fair Chloris walk alone
I saw my Lady weep
I saw old Autumn in the misty morn
I saw where in the shroud did lurk
I sent a ring—a little band
I sing of a maiden
Is it so small a thing
Isles of Greece! the isles of Greece
I strove with none, for none was worth my strife
I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless
It fell about the Martinmas
It fell in the ancient periods
It fell on a day, and a bonnie simmer day
I that in heill was and gladnèss
I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide
I thought once how Theocritus had sung
I thought to meet no more, so dreary seem'd
It is a beauteous evening, calm and free
It is an ancient Mariner
It is not, Celia, in our power
It is not death, that sometime in a sigh
It is not growing like a tree
It is not to be thought of that the flood
It is the miller's daughter
I took my heart in my hand
I travell'd among unknown men
Its edges foam'd with amethyst and rose
It was a dismal and a fearful night
It was a' for our rightfu' King
It was a lover and his lass
It was many and many a year ago
It was not in the Winter
It was not like your great and gracious ways!
It was the Winter wilde
I've heard them lilting at our ewe-milking
I wander'd lonely as a cloud
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree
I will make you brooches and toys for your delight
I wish I were where Helen lies
I, with whose colours Myra dress'd her head

Jenny kiss'd me when we met
John anderson, my jo, John

King sits in Dunfermline town
Know, Celia, since thou art so proud

Ladies, though to your conquering eyes
Lady Mary Villiers lies
Lark now leaves his wat'ry nest
Last and greatest Herald of Heaven's King
Late at een, drinkin' the wine
Lawrence of vertuous Father vertuous Son
Lay a garland on my herse
Leave me, O Love, which reachest but to dust
Leaves are falling; so am I
Lenten ys come with love to toune
Lestenyt, lordynges, both elde and yinge
Let me go forth, and share
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Let the bird of loudest lay
Let us drink and be merry, dance, joke, and rejoice
Life! I know not what thou art
Like the Idalian queen
Like thee I once have stemm'd the sea of life
Like to Diana in her summer weed
Like to the clear in highest sphere
Linnet in the rocky dells
London, thou art of townes A per se
Long-expected one-and-twenty
Look not thou on beauty's charming
Loppèd tree in time may grow again
Lo, quhat it is to love
Lords, knights, and squires, the numerous band
Loud mockers in the roaring street
Love bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back
Love guards the roses of thy lips
Love in fantastic triumph sate
Love in my bosom like a bee
Love is a sickness full of woes
Love is enough: though the World be a-waning
Love is the blossom where there blows
Lovely lass o' Inverness
Love not me for comely grace
Love, thou are absolute, sole Lord
Love thy country, wish it well
Love wing'd my Hopes and taught me how to fly

Man of life upright
Marie hamilton 's to the kirk gane
Mark where the pressing wind shoots javelin-like
Martial, the things that do attain
Marvel of marvels, if I myself shall behold
Mary! I want a lyre with other strings
May! Be thou never graced with birds that sing
May! queen of blossoms
Men grew sae cauld, maids sae unkind
Merchant, to secure his treasure
Merry Margaret
Me so oft my fancy drew
Methought I saw my late espousèd Saint
Mild is the parting year, and sweet
Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour
More love or more disdain I crave
Mortality, behold and fear!
Most glorious Lord of Lyfe! that, on this day
Mother of Hermes! and still youthful Maia!
Mother, I cannot mind my wheel
Moth's kiss, first!
Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold
Murmur of the mourning ghost
Music, when soft voices die
My blood so red
My Damon was the first to wake
My days among the Dead are past
My dear and only Love, I pray
My delight and thy delight
My faint spirit was sitting in the light
My grief on the sea
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My heart is high above, my body is full of bliss
My heart is like a singing bird
My heart leaps up when I behold
My little Son, who look'd from thoughtful eyes
My Love in her attire doth show her wit
My love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seeming
My love o'er the water bends dreaming
My lute, awake! perform the last
My mother bore me in the southern wild
My new-cut ashlar takes the light
My noble, lovely, little Peggy
My Peggy is a young thing
My Phillis hath the morning sun
My silks and fine array
My soul, sit thou a patient looker-on
My soul, there is a country
My thoughts hold mortal strife
My true love hath my heart, and I have his

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