Verse > Anthologies > Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. > An American Anthology, 1787–1900
Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908).  An American Anthology, 1787–1900.  1900.
Index to First Lines
“Flower of the moon”
to “I try to knead”

Flower of the moon!
Flower of youth, in the ancient frame
Flower, that I hold in my hand
For a cap and bells our lives we pay
Foreseen in the vision of sages
Forgiveness Lane is old as youth
For many blessings I to God upraise
For me the jasmine buds unfold
For, O America, our country!—land
For sixty days and upwards
For them, O God, who only worship Thee
Four straight brick walls, severely plain
Four things a man must learn to do
Framed in the cavernous fire-place sits a boy
Freedom’s first champion in our fettered land!
Friends of the Muse, to you of right belong
Fringing cypress forests dim
From far away, from far away
From some sweet home, the morning train
From the Desert I come to thee
From their folded mates they wander far
From the misty shores of midnight, touched with splendors of the moon
From this quaint cabin window I can see
Frowning, the mountain stronghold stood
Furl that Banner, for ’t is weary
Garçon! You—you
Gather all kindreds of this boundless realm
Gaunt, rueful knight, on raw-boned, shambling hack
Gay, guiltless pair
Gently, Lord, oh, gently lead us
Give honor and love for evermore
Give me a fillet, Love
Give me a race that is run in a breath
Give me the room whose every nook
Give me the splendid silent sun with all his beams full-dazzling
Give me to die unwitting of the day
Give us a song!” the soldiers cried
Glooms of the live-oaks, beautiful-braided and woven
Glory and honor and fame and everlasting laudation
Go bow thy head in gentle spite
God called the nearest angels who dwell with Him above
God dreamed—the suns sprang flaming into place
God keep you, dearest, all this lonely night
Godlike beneath his grave divinities
Gone, gone,—sold and gone
Good-by: nay, do not grieve that it is over
Good Master, you and I were born
Good-night! I have to say good-night
Good oars, for Arnold’s sake
Go, Rose, and in her golden hair
Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal
Go ’way, fiddle! folks is tired o’ hearin’ you a-squawkin
Grandmother’s mother: her age, I guess
Great Sovereign of the earth and sea
Green be the turf above thee
Green blood fresh pulsing through the trees
Green grew the reeds and pale they were
Guvener B. is a sensible man
Had I the power
Hail, Columbia! happy land!
Hail to the brightness of Zion’s glad morning
Hail to the land whereon we tread
Hall we meet no more, my love, at the binding of the sheaves
Handsome? I hardly know. Her profile ’s fine
Happy are they and charmed in life
Happy Song-sparrow, that on woodland side
Hark at the lips of this pink whorl of shell
Haro! Haro!
Has any one seen my Fair
Hast thou a lamp, a little lamp
Hast thou named all the birds without a gun?
Hath not the dark stream closed above thy head
Hats off!
Headless, without an arm, a figure leans
Hear now this fairy legend of old Greece
Hear the sledges with the bells
Heaven is mirrored, Love, deep in thine eyes
Heaven is open every day
He came too late!—Neglect had tried
He caught his chisel, hastened to his bench
He comes, the happy warrior
He crawls along the mountain walls
He cried aloud to God: The men below
He did n’t know much music
He ’d nothing but his violin
Heedless she strayed from note to note
He gathered cherry-stones, and carved them quaintly
He knelt beside her pillow, in the dead watch of the night
Helen, thy beauty is to me
He lies low in the levelled sand
He loved her, having felt his love begin
He loves not well whose love is bold!
He might have won the highest guerdon that heaven to earth can give
Her aged hands are worn with works of love
Her casement like a watchful eye
Her dimpled cheeks are pale
Here are old trees, tall oaks, and gnarlëd pines
Here at the country inn
Here, Charmian, take my bracelets
Here falls no light of sun nor stars
Here—for they could not help but die
Here from the brow of the hill I look
Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere
Here in the dark what ghostly figures press!
Here in this room where first we met
Here lived the soul enchanted
Here, O lily-white lady mine
Here room and kingly silence keep
Here they give me greeting
Her eyes be like the violets
Her hands are cold; her face is white
He rides at their head
Her lips were so near
Her suffering ended with the day
Her voice was like the song of birds
Her ways were gentle while a babe
He sang one song and died—no more but that
He sang the airs of olden times
He sleeps at last—a hero of his race
He speaks not well who doth his time deplore
He was in love with Truth and knew her near
He was six years old, just six that day
He who hath loved hath borne a vassal’s chain
He who would echo Horace’ lays
He wrought with patience long and weary years
Hey, laddie, hark, to the merry, merry lark
High above hate I dwell
High-lying, sea-blown stretches of green turf
High towered the palace and its massive pile
High walls and huge the body may confine
His body lies upon the shore
His broad-brimmed hat pushed back with careless air
His cherished woods are mute. The stream glides down
His echoing axe the settler swung
His face is truly of the Roman mould
His falchion flashed along the Nile
His footprints have failed us
His fourscore years and five
His Grace of Marlborough, legends say
His soul extracted from the public sink
His tongue was touched with sacred fire
His way in farming all men knew
Hit ’s a mighty fur ways up de Far’well Lane
Ho, a song by the fire!
Ho! City of the gay!
Holy of England! since my light is short
Home from the observatory
Home of the Percys’ high-born race
Honest Stradivari made men
Hope, is this thy hand
Ho! pony. Down the lonely road
Ho, there! Fisherman, hold your hand!
How are songs begot and bred?
How, as a spider’s web is spun
How beautiful to live as thou didst live!
How can it be that I forget
How cold are thy baths, Apollo!
How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood
How I should like a birthday!” said the child
How long it seems since that mild April night
How long I ’ve loved thee, and how well
How shall we know it is the last good-by?
How shall we tell an angel
How slight a thing may set one’s fancy drifting
How small a tooth hath mined the season’s heart!
How still the room is! But a while ago
How they are provided for upon the earth (appearing at intervals)
Hundreds of stars in the pretty sky
Hymettus’ bees are out on filmy wing
I am dying, Egypt, dying!
I am immortal! I know it! I feel it!
I am not what I was yesterday
I am old and blind!
I am the mown grass, dying at your feet
I am the spirit of the morning sea
I am the Virgin; from this granite ledge
I am Thy grass, O Lord!
I and my cousin Wildair met
I ask not how thy suffering came
I bear an unseen burden constantly
I beg the pardon of these flowers
I broke one day a slender stem
I burn no incense, hang no wreath
I cannot look above and see
I cannot make him dead!
I celebrate myself, and sing myself
I could have stemmed misfortune’s tide
I count my time by times that I meet thee
I crave, dear Lord
I dare not think that thou art by, to stand
I did not think that I should find them there
I died; they wrapped me in a shroud
I do affirm that thou hast saved the race
I do not own an inch of land
I don’t go much on religion
I explain the silvered passing of a ship at night
If all the trees in all the woods were men
If all the voices of men called out warning you, and you could not join your voice with their voices
I fear no power a woman wields
I feel a poem in my heart to-night
I feel the breath of the summer night
If I, athirst by a stream, should kneel
If I but knew what the tree-tops say
If I could know
If I lay waste and wither up with doubt
I fill this cup to one made up
If I must die
If I shall ever win the home in heaven
If I were a cloud in heaven
If I were very sure
If Jesus Christ is a man
I found a yellow flower in the grass
If spirits walk, love, when the night climbs slow
If there be graveyards in the heart
If the red slayer think he slays
If this little world to-night
If, when I kneel to pray
If wisdom’s height is only disenchantment
If with light head erect I sing
I gazed upon the glorious sky
I had my birth where stars were born
I have a little kinsman
I have two friends—two glorious friends—two better could not be
I heard the bells of Bethlehem ring
I heard the trailing garments of the Night
I hear in my heart, I hear in its ominous pulses
I hear you, little bird
I hung my verses in the wind
I idle stand that I may find employ
I know a place where the sun is like gold
I know a story, fairer, dimmer, sadder
I know a way
I know, I know where violets blow
I know it must be winter (though I sleep)
I know not what will befall me: God hangs a mist o’er my eyes
I lay in silence, dead. A woman came
I lift mine eyes against the sky
I lift this sumach-bough with crimson flare
I like a church; I like a cowl
I like the man who faces what he must
I ’ll call thy frown a headsman, passing grim
I ’ll not believe the dullard dark
I looked one night, and there Semiramis
I look upon thy happy face
I loved thee long and dearly
I love the old melodious lays
I love thy kingdom, Lord
I love to steal awhile away
I made a song for my dear love’s delight
I made the cross myself whose weight
I ’m a gwine to tell you bout de comin’ ob de Saviour
I met a little Elf-man, once
I mid the hills was born
I ’m king of the road! I gather
In a branch of willow hid
In an ocean, ’way out yonder
In a tangled, scented hollow
Inaudible move day and night
In a valley, centuries ago
In battle-line of sombre gray
In days when George the Third was King
In each green leaf a memory let lie
I never build a song by night or day
I never had a happier time
In good condition
In Heaven a spirit doth dwell
In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes
In my sleep I was fain of their fellowship, fain
Innocent spirits, bright, immaculate ghosts!
Insect or blossom? Fragile, fairy thing
In shining groups, each stem a pearly ray
In spite of all the learned have said
In tangled wreaths, in clustered gleaming stars
In Tennessee, the dogwood tree
In the coiled shell sounds Ocean’s distant roar
In the darkness deep
In the gloomy ocean bed
In the greenest of our valleys
In the groined alcoves of an ancient tower
In their ragged regimentals
In the loud waking world I come and go
In the night
In the old churchyard at Fredericksburg
In the still, star-lit night
In the white moonlight, where the willow waves
In thy coach of state
Into the caverns of the sea
Into the noiseless country Annie went
Into the woods my Master went
In vain we call old notions fudge
In vain we call old notions fudge
In what a strange bewilderment do we
I pace the sounding sea-beach and behold
I passed by a garden, a little Dutch garden
I picture her there in the quaint old room
I pray you, what ’s asleep?
I put thy hand aside, and turn away
I read somewhere that a swan, snow-white
I read the marble-lettered name
I reside at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James
I said: My heart, now let us sing a song
I said to Sorrow’s awful storm
I ’s a little Alabama Coon
I saw a man, by some accounted wise
I saw a picture once by Angelo
I saw her scan her sacred scroll
I saw him once before
I saw not they were strange, the ways I roam
I saw the constellated matin choir
I saw them kissing in the shade and knew the sum of all my lore
I saw these dreamers of dreams go by
I saw the twinkle of white feet
I saw thy beauty in its high estate
I saw—’t was in a dream, the other night
I saw two clouds at morning
I say it under the rose
I’ s boun’ to see my gal to-night
I see a tiny fluttering form
I see before me now a travelling army halting
I see the cloud-born squadrons of the gale
I see thee still! thou art not dead
I see them,—crowd on crowd they walk the earth
I see the star-lights quiver
I send thee a shell from the ocean beach
I served in a great cause
I shall go out when the light comes in
I shot an arrow into the air
I sing the hymn of the conquered, who fell in the Battle of Life
I stand upon the summit of my life
I stood within the cypress gloom
I studied my tables over and over, and backward and forward, too
Is water nigh?
I take my chaperon to the play
It came upon the midnight clear
It cannot be that He who made
I think if I should cross the room
I think it is over, over
I think that we retain of our dead friends
It is dark and lonesome here
It is good to strive against wind and rain
It is in Winter that we dream of Spring
It is not death to die
It is the bittern’s solemn cry
It is the hour when Arno turns
It is the same infrequent star
It is time to be old
It lies around us like a cloud
I tripped along a narrow way
I try to knead and spin, but my life is low the while



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