Verse > Anthologies > Jessie B. Rittenhouse, ed. > The Second Book of Modern Verse
Jessie B. Rittenhouse, ed. (1869–1948).  The Second Book of Modern Verse.  1920.
Index to First Lines
All day long I have been working
All the men of Harbury go down to the sea in ships
April now walks the fields again
A red-cap sang in Bishop’s wood
As it
As I went over the Far Hill
Atropos, dread
At the first hour, it was as if one said, “Arise.”
Autumn in Oregon is wet as Spring
A wind rose in the night
Because on the branch that is tapping my pane
Because we felt there could not be
Before I die I may be great
Behind the house is the millet plot
Belovèd, till the day break
Bend now thy body to the common weight!
Be not angry with me that I bear
Be patient, Life, when Love is at the gate
Blake saw a treeful of angels at Peckham Rye
Booth led boldly with his big bass drum
Brother Tree
But now the Dream has come again, the world is as of old
By the fond name that was his own and mine
By the rosy cliffs of Devon, on a green hill’s crest
Cold is the wind to-night, and rough the sea
Come, when the pale moon like a petal
Dark winds of the mountain
Dear, when I went with you
Death is like moonlight in a lofty wood
Deep in the heart of me,Nothing but You!
Down by the railroad in a green valley
Drowsily come the sheep
Earth has gone up from its Gethsemane
Fifty years spent before I found me
Gone are the three, those sisters rare
Good-bye to tree and tower
Grasshopper, your fairy song
Great god whom I shall carve from this gray stone
Have you an eye for the trails, the trails
Here in the level country
He was straight and strong, and his eyes were blue
How, how,” he said. “Friend Chang,” I said
How many million Aprils came
How may one hold these days of wonderment
How memory cuts away the years
How much of Godhood did it take
I am all alone in the room
I am in love with high far-seeing places
I am not old, but old enough
I am the Dark Cavalier; I am the Last Lover
I cannot but remember
I cannot tell you now
I cannot think nor reason
I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts
I do not fear to lay my body down
I’d rather have the thought of you
I dreamed I passed a doorway
I envy the feeble old man
I flung my soul to the air like a falcon flying
If you should tire of loving me
I have an understanding with the hills
I have a rendezvous with Death
I have heard the wild geese
I have killed the moth flying around my night-light
I have known the silence of the stars and of the sea
I heard a bird at break of day
I heard an old farm-wife
I know the sorrows of the last abyss
I know you are too dear to stay
I make my shroud, but no one knows
In a wood they call the Rouge Bouquet
In came the moon and covered me with wonder
I never knew the earth had so much gold
In spite of war, in spite of death
In the cold I will rise, I will bathe
In the loam we sleep
In the still cold before the sun
In the very early morning when the light was low
In Tilbury Town did Old King Cole
I pass a lighted window
I saw the first pear
I sing of sorrow
Is there no voice in the world to come crying
I think that I shall never see
It is moonlight. Alone in the silence
It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning
It is not Spring—not yet
It is portentous, and a thing of state
I’ve seen her pass with eyes upon the road
I walk down the garden paths
I went out to the farthest meadow
I will be the gladdest thing
Jerico, Jerico
John Brown and Jeanne at Fontainebleau
Kenton and Deborah, Michael and Rose
Let others give you wealth and love
Like a gaunt, scraggly pine
Like a young child who to his mother’s door
Little brown surf-bather of the mountains!
Little park that I pass through
Lord Gabriel, wilt thou not rejoice
Lord, in this hour of tumult
Mine eyes are filled today with old amaze
Mother, in some sad evening long ago
Music I heard with you was more than music
My brother, man, shapes him a plan
My faith is all a doubtful thing
My land was the west land; my home was on the hill
My long two-pointed ladder’s sticking through a tree
My love it should be silent, being deep
My shoulders ache beneath my pack
Name me no names for my disease
Nevermore singing
No doubt this active will
O bitter herb, Forgetfulness
O clinging hands, and eyes where sleep has set
O Earth-and-Autumn of the Setting Sun
O’er Carmel fields in the springtime
O Glass-Blower of time
O God that I
Oh, cut me reeds to blow upon
Oh, praise me not the silent folk
One glance and I had lost her in the riot
One ought not to have to care
Order is a lovely thing
Our little house upon the hill
Out of the window a sea of green trees
O wind, rend open the heat
O world, I cannot hold thee close enough!
Pan, blow your pipes and I will be
Pierrette has gone, but it was not
Rich, honored by my fellow citizens
Roof-tops, roof-tops, what do you cover?
She follows me about my House of Life
She goes all so softly
Sleep on—I lie at heaven’s high oriels
Softly at dawn a whisper stole
Some days my thoughts are just cocoons
Space, and the twelve clean winds of heaven
Suddenly bells and flags!
Sun on the dewy grasslands where late the frost hath shone
Tell me
That overnight a rose could come
The bells of Osenèy
The bride, she wears a white, white rose
The day before April
The first faint dawn was flushing up the skies
The hills far-off were blue, blue
The Kings are passing deathward in the dark
The man Flammonde, from God knows where
There be five things to a man’s desire
There is a memory stays upon old ships
There’s a path that leads to Nowhere
There’s nothing very beautiful and nothing very gay
There was a day when death to me meant tears
There were not many at that lonely place
There will come soft rain and the smell of the ground
The ships are lying in the bay
The sky
The snow is lying very deep
The Spring blew trumpets of color
The Spring will come when the year turns
The stranger in my gates—lo! that am I
The swan existing
The Wide Door into Sorrow
Though wisdom underfoot
Tired of man’s futile, petty cry
To-day I have grown taller from walking with the trees
To-night eternity alone is near
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
Under our curtain of fire
Vain is the chiming of forgotten bells
We ask that Love shall rise to the divine
Well, if the thing is over, better it is for me
What sudden bugle calls us in the night
What though the moon should come
What waspish whim of Fate
When Dragon-fly would fix his wings
Whenever Richard Cory went down town
When he went blundering back to God
When I come back from secret dreams
When I see birches bend to left and right
When, sick of all the sorrow and distress
When the rose of Morn through the Dawn was breaking
Where love once was, let there be no hate
Whether the time be slow or fast
Who is the runner in the skies
Why should we argue with the falling dust
With all the fairest angels nearest God
Would you not be in Tryon
Yearly thrilled the plum tree
Ye morning-glories, ring in the gale your bells
You are beautiful and faded
Your eyes and the valley are memories



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