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
“They are all gone”
to “You will come”

They are all gone away
They are my laddie’s hounds
They are slaves who fear to speak
They cannot wholly pass away
They chained her fair young body to the cold and cruel stone
The Year had all the Days in charge
They glare—those stony eyes!
They had brought in such sheafs of hair
They made them ready and we saw them go
They rise to mastery of wind and snow
They rode from the camp at morn
They say that, afar in the land of the west
They tell me, Liberty! that in thy name
They tell me that I must not love
They tell you that Death ’s at the turn of the road
They wait all day unseen by us, unfelt
They who create rob death of half its stings
Thine is the mystic melody
Thine old-world eyes—each one a violet
This ancient silver bowl of mine, it tells of good old times
This bears the seal of immortality
This book is all that ’s left me now!
This bronze doth keep the very form and mould
This, Children, is the famed Mon-goos
This drop of ink chance leaves upon my pen
This is a breath of summer wind
This is Palm Sunday: mindful of the day
This is the end of the book
This is the loggia Browning loved
This is the pathway where she walked
This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign
This is the song of the wave! The mighty one!
This is the way the baby slept
This realm is sacred to the silent past
This the true sign of ruin to a race
This was the man God gave us when the hour
This was your butterfly, you see
This world was not
Those days we spent on Lebanon
Those earlier men that owned our earth
Those were good times, in olden days
Thou art a fool,” said my head to my heart
Thou art as a lone watcher on a rock
Thou art lost to me forever!—I have lost thee, Isadore!
Thou art mine, thou hast given thy word
Thou art my very own
Thou blossom bright with autumn dew
Thou, born to sip the lake or spring
Thou dancer of two thousand years
Thou ever young! Persephone but gazes
Thou foolish blossom, all untimely blown!
Thou for whose birth the whole creation yearned
Though gifts like thine the fates gave not to me
Though I am humble, slight me not
Though thy constant love I share
Thought is deeper than all speech
Though tuneless, stringless, it lies there in dust
Though Winter come with dripping skies
Thou glorious mocker of the world! I hear
Thou half-unfolded flower
Thou happiest thing alive
Thou hast evil
Thou little bird, thou dweller by the sea
Thou, Sibyl rapt! whose sympathetic soul
Thou spark of life that wavest wings of gold
Thou tall, majestic monarch of the wood
Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State!
Thou unrelenting Past!
Thou wast all that to me, love
Thou, who didst lay all other bosoms bare
Thou who hast slept all night upon the storm
Thou who ordainest, for the land’s salvation
Thou,—whose endearing hand once laid in sooth
Thou, who wouldst wear the name
Three horsemen galloped the dusty way
Three steps and I reach the door
Through his million veins are poured
Through love to light! Oh wonderful the way
Through my open window comes the sweet perfuming
Throughout the soft and sunlit day
Through some strange sense of sight or touch
Through storms you reach them and from storms are free
Through the fierce fever I nursed him, and then he said
Thunder our thanks to her—guns, hearts, and lips!
Thy cruise is over now
Thy face I have seen as one seeth
Thy laugh’s a song an oriole trilled
Thy one white leaf is open to the sky
Thy span of life was all too short
Thy trivial harp will never please
Time cannot age thy sinews, nor the gale
Time has no flight—’t is we who speed along
Tinged with the blood of Aztec lands
T is but a little faded flower
T is of a gallant Yankee ship that flew the stripes and stars
T is said that absence conquers love!
T is said that the gods on Olympus of old
T is something from that tangle to have won
T is the blithest, bonniest weather for a bird to flirt a feather
T is to yourself I speak; you cannot know
To-day, dear heart, but just to-day
To eastward ringing, to westward winging, o’er mapless miles of sea
To him who in the love of Nature holds
Toil on, poor muser, to attain that goal
To kiss my Celia’s fairer breast
To me the earth once seemed to be
To put new shingles on old roofs
To spring belongs the violet, and the blown
Tossing his mane of snows in wildest eddies and tangles
To stand within a gently gliding boat
To the brave all homage render
To the quick brow Fame grudges her best wreath
To the sea-shell’s spiral round
To what new fates, my country, far
To you, whose temperate pulses flow
Trembling before thine awful throne
True love’s own talisman, which here
Turning from Shelley’s sculptured face aside
Turn out more ale, turn up the light
Turn with me from the city’s clamorous street
Tuscan, that wanderest through the realms of gloom
T was one of the charmëd days
T was summer, and the spot a cool retreat
T was the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Two angels came through the gate of Heaven
Two armies covered hill and plain
Two loves had I. Now both are dead
Two shall be born the whole wide world apart
Tying her bonnet under her chin
Unconquerably, men venture on the quest
Under a spreading chestnut-tree
Under a sultry, yellow sky
Under a toadstool
Under the apple bough
Under the roots of the roses
Under the shadows of a cliff
Under the slanting light of the yellow sun of October
Under the violets, blue and sweet
Unflinching Dante of a later day
Unhappy dreamer, who outwinged in flight
Unmoored, unmanned, unheeded on the deep
Unnoted as the setting of a star
Untrammelled Giant of the West
Unwarmed by any sunset light
Upon my bier no garlands lay
Upon my mantel-piece they stand
Upon Nirwána’s brink the ráhat stood
Us two wuz boys when we fell out
Vengeful across the cold November moors
Venus has lit her silver lamp
Very dark the autumn sky
Wake, Israel, wake! Recall to-day
Wake not, but hear me, love!
Wall, no! I can’t tell whar he lives
Warm, wild, rainy wind, blowing fitfully
Was there another Spring than this?
Was this his face, and these the finding eyes
Way down upon de Swanee Ribber
Weak-winged is song
We are but two—the others sleep
We are ghost-ridden
We are the Ancient People
We are two travellers, Roger and I
Weary at heart with winter yesterday
Weary, weary, desolate
Weave no more silks, ye Lyons looms
We break the glass, whose sacred wine
We count the broken lyres that rest
We follow where the Swamp Fox guides
We gazed on Corryvrekin’s whirl
We had been long in mountain snow
We have sent him seeds of the melon’s core
We know not what it is, dear, this sleep so deep and still
We lay us down to sleep
Well, yes, sir, dat am a comical name
We must be nobler for our dead, be sure
Were but my spirit loosed upon the air
Were I a happy bird
Were I transported to some distant star
We sailed and sailed upon the desert sea
We sail toward evening’s lonely star
We, sighing, said, Our Pan is dead
We summoned not the Silent Guest
We took it to the woods, we two
We were boys together
We were not many—we who stood
We were ordered to Samoa from the coast of Panama
We were twin brothers, tall and hale
We wondered why he always turned aside
We wreathed about our darling’s head
What are the long waves singing so mournfully evermore?
What, are you hurt, Sweet? So am I
What bird is that, with voice so sweet
What bring ye me, O camels, across the southern desert
What can console for a dead world?
What, can these dead bones live, whose sap is dried
What care I, what cares he
What charlatans in this later day
What, comrade of a night
What domes and pinnacles of mist and fire
What dost thou here
What! dost thou pray that the outgone tide be rolled back on the strand
What fragrant-footed comer
What great yoked brutes with briskets low
What has become of the good ship Kite?
What if the Soul her real life elsewhere holds
What is a sonnet? ’T is the pearly shell
What is it to be dead?” O Life
What is the little one thinking about?
What is there wanting in the Spring?
What man is there so bold that he should say
What! Roses on thy tomb! and was there then
What seek’st thou at this madman’s pace?
What shall her silence keep
What shall we do now, Mary being dead
What shall we mourn? For the prostrate tree that sheltered the young green wood?
What ’s love, when the most is said? The flash of the lightning fleet
What songs found voice upon those lips
What ’s the brightness of a brow?
What strength! what strife! what rude unrest!
What then, what if my lips do burn
What though the green leaf grow?
What time the earth takes on the garb of Spring
What was my dream? Though consciousness be clear
What, what, what
What will you give to a barefoot lass
When almond buds unclose
When April rains make flowers bloom
When calm is the night, and the stars shine bright
Whence come ye, Cherubs? from the moon?
Whence, O fragrant form of light
When cherry flowers begin to blow
When Darby saw the setting sun
When Dorothy and I took tea, we sat upon the floor
When dreaming kings, at odds with swift paced time
Whenever a little child is born
Whenever a snowflake leaves the sky
When first I looked into thy glorious eyes
When first I saw her, at the stroke
When Freedom from her mountain height
When from the vaulted wonder of the sky
When I am standing on a mountain crest
When I consider Life and its few years
When I forth fare beyond this narrow earth
When in my walks I meet some ruddy lad
When in the first great hour of sleep supreme
When in thy glass thou studiest thy face
When I was seventeen I heard
When I went up the minster tower
When late I heard the trembling cello play
When leaves turn outward to the light
When Love comes knocking at thy gate
When love in the faint heart trembles
When Nature had made all her birds
When on my soul in nakedness
When our babe he goeth walking in his garden
When Psyche’s friend becomes her lover
When she comes home again! A thousand ways
When souls that have put off their mortal gear
When stars pursue their solemn flight
When sunshine met the wave
When the grass shall cover me
When the lessons and tasks are all ended
When the reaper’s task was ended, and the summer wearing late
When the rose is brightest
When the Sultan Shah-Zaman
When the veil from the eyes is lifted
When tulips bloom in Union Square
When winds go organing through the pines
When winter’s cold tempests and snows are no more
When wintry days are dark and drear
When youth was lord of my unchallenged fate
Where all the winds were tranquil
Where ancient forests round us spread
Where broods the Absolute
Wherefore these revels that my dull eyes greet?
Where Helen comes, as falls the dew
Where Helen sits, the darkness is so deep
Where Hudson’s wave o’er silvery sands
Where in its old historic splendor stands
Where now these mingled ruins lie
Where ’s he that died o’ Wednesday?
Where swell the songs thou shouldst have sung
Where the graves were many, we looked for one
While I recline
While now the Pole Star sinks from sight
Whipp’will’s singin’ to de moon
White England shouldering from the sea
White sail upon the ocean verge
White sand and cedars; cedars, sand
White wings of commerce sailing far
Whither leads this pathway, little one?
Whither, midst falling dew
Who are ye, spirits, that stand
Who comes to England not to learn
Who drives the horses of the sun
Who has robbed the ocean cave
Who knows the thoughts of a child
Who ’ll have the crumpled pieces of a heart?
Whom the gods love die young
Who nearer Nature’s life would truly come
Whose furthest footstep never strayed
Who tamed your lawless Tartar blood?
Who will watch thee, little mound
Why, Death, what dost thou here
Why dost thou hail with songful lips no more
Why here, on this third planet from the Sun
Why should I stay? Nor seed nor fruit have I
Why shouldst thou cease thy plaintive song
Why should we waste and weep?
Why thus longing, thus for ever sighing
Wide open and unguarded stand our gates
Wild is its nature, as it were a token
Wild Rose of Alloway! my thanks
Wild stream the clouds, and the fresh wind is singing
Will there really be a morning?
Wind of the City Streets
Wind of the North
Winged mimic of the woods! thou motley fool!
Withdraw thee, soul, from strife
With eyes hand-arched he looks into
Within a poor man’s squalid home I stood
Within his sober realm of leafless trees
Within me are two souls that pity each
Within my heart I long have kept
Within this lowly grave a Conqueror lies
With oaken staff and swinging lantern bright
Without him still this whirling earth
With sails full set, the ship her anchor weighs
With saintly grace and reverent tread
With wrath-flushed cheeks, and eyelids red
Woe for the brave ship Orient!
Woodman, spare that tree!
Words, words
Wouldst know the artist? Then go seek
Would the lark sing the sweeter if he knew
Would you hear of the River-Fight?
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night
Yer know me little nipper,
Yes, death is at the bottom of the cup
Yes, faith is a goodly anchor
Yes, he was that, or that, as you prefer
Yes, I have heard the nightingale
Yes, I know what you say
Ye smooth-faced sons of Jacob, hug close your ingleside
Yes, still I love thee! Time, who sets
Yet, O my friend—pale conjurer, I call
Ye white Sicilian goats, who wander all
Yon clouds that roam the deserts of the air
You ask a verse, to sing (ah, laughing face!)
You ax about dat music made
You gave me roses, love, last night
You know, my friends, with what a brave carouse
Young to the end through sympathy with youth
Your heart is a music-box, dearest!
You sang me a song
You who dread the cares and labors
You will come, my bird, Bonita?



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