Verse > Anthologies > William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. > Anthology of Massachusetts Poets
William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. (1878–1962).  Anthology of Massachusetts Poets.  1922.
Index to First Lines
A castle stands in Yorkshire
Across the Bay are low-lying cliffs
After the song the love, and after the love the play
All day long he kept the sheep
A road goes up a pleasant hill
A rose to the living is more
A shepherd piping, herald of the Night
Bed is the boon for me!
Before him rolls the dark, relentless ocean
Burnt are the petals of life as a rose fallen and crumbled to dust
Columbkille! Saint Columbkille!
Dearest, we are like two flowers
Ebb on with me across the sunset tide
Enough has been said about roses
Fly back where Melodies like lilies grow
Four graves there are upon the wooded crest
Fresh mists of Roman dawn
German Retreat From Arras
God said, and frowned, as He looked on Shropshire clay
God, through his offspring Nature, gave me love
Green golden door, swing in, swing in!
High in the apple bough jauntily swinging
Horseman, springing from the dark
How many are the scenes he limned
I can’t forget a gaunt grey barn
If there be leaves on the forest floor
I love to watch the world from here, for all
I ran into the sunset light
I saw an idler on a summer day
I’ve been a hopeless sinner, but I understand a saint
I walk down the garden paths
I walked with poets in my youth
Let me be great, as stars are great
Little fellow, brown with wind
Mary, the Christ long slain, passed silently
Miss Doane was sixty, probably
Must I, who walk alone
My love will come in autumn-time
Night of infinite power and infinite silence and space
Not flesh alone am I, when I can be
O beauteous boy a-dream, what visions sought
O beautiful for spacious skies
Of old our father’s God was real
Oh do not Pity me because I gave
O hearken, all ye little weeds
Old Michael Pat he said to me
O little soldier with the golden helmet
O swift forerunners, rosy with the race!
Out of one heart the birds and I together
Over the twilight field
Over where the Irish hedges
O wild heart, track the land’s perfume
Red rooster in your gray coop
Red wreaths
She reached for sunset fires
She said, “Lift high the cup!”
Sitteth by the red cairn a brown One, a hoofed One
Soldier and singer of Erin
Some saw a dragon eating up the light
Stay, flaming rose, ’twould grieve her heart
Such quiet sleep has come to them!
That odd, fantastic ass, Rousseau
The cretonne in your willow chair
The fog inrolling, dark and still
The German people reared them
The great world stretched its arms to me and held me to its breast
The Moods have laid their hands across my hair
The moon is a wavering rim where one fish slips
There where the sea enwrapt
The scent of lilac in the air
The swart Italian in the trolley car
The woods grew dark; black shadows rocked
They wrapped my soul in eiderdown
Thick dappled by circles of sunshine and fluttering shade
This is the song of the wave! The mighty one!
This pansy has a thinking face
Through twelve stout generations
Thy hills are kneeling in the tardy spring
Traveling at dusk the noisy city street
Upon the hills of Garlingtown
Waves and Wings and Growing Things!
We long for her, we yearn for her
What is more beautiful
When I was but a young lad
When the time for parting comes, and the day is on the wane
Where are the friends that I knew in my Maying
Where art Thou, O my Lord?
Why should I sing of my present? It is nothing to me or you
You may think my life is quiet
You, who have given me your name



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