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Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.

Index to First Lines

A blue-black Nubian plucking oranges
A few more windy days
A flying word from here and there
Against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
A gaunt-built woman and her son-in-law
A gleam of gold in gloom and gray
Ah, Happiness
Ah, never in all my life
Ah stern cold man
A hut, and a tree
A kite, while devouring a skylark
All day the mallet thudded far below
All down the years the fragrance came
All my love for my sweet
All those treasures that lie
Among the mountains I wandered
Among the smoke and fog of a December afternoon
And as we walked the grass was faintly stirred
An image of Lethe
Annie Shore, ’twas, sang last night
A poet, having taken the bridle off his tongue
A queen lived in the South
Are you alive?
Are you awake? Do you hear the rain?
Are your rocks shelter for ships?
As a naked man I go
As a white candle
As down the street she wambled slow
As I lie roofed in, screened in
As I rode down the arroyo through yuccas belled with bloom
As it
A sky that has never known sun, moon or stars
A storm is riding on the tide
A thin gray shadow on the edge of thought
A thrush is tapping a stone
Babylon—where I go dreaming
Beautiful, tragical faces
Behold me, in my chiffon, gauze and tinsel
Be in me as the eternal moods
Beneath my window in a city street
Be not angry with me that I bear
Be patient, Life, when Love is at the gate
Better than granite, Spoon River
Between the avenue of cypresses
Blackbird, blackbird in the cage
Blossoms of babies
Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead!
Booth led boldly with his big bass drum
Brief on a flying night
Bring me soft song, said Aladdin
Brother, I am fire
By an alley lined with tumble-down shacks
Call me friend or foe
Candles toppling sideways in tomato cans
Child, why do you linger beside her portal?
Clear air and grassy lea
Come down at dawn from windless hills
Come let us pity those who are better off than we are
Come, my songs, let us express our baser passions
Come, mysterious night
Come, sprite, and dance! The sun is up
Complacencies of the peignoir, and late
Dark-eyed
Daughter, thou art come to die
Dead Cleopatra lies in a crystal casket
Dear! of all happy in the hour, most blest
Death, I say, my heart is bowed
Death’s nobility again
Desolate and lone
Did you ever hear of Editor Whedon
Did you ever see an alligator
Do the boys and girls still go to Siever’s
Do you remember, O Delphic Apollo
Do you remember the dark pool at Nîmes
Do you think, my boy, when I put my arms around you
Earth travails
Even as the seed of the marigold
Fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room
For God, our God, is a gallant foe
For I was a gaunt, grave councillor
From our hidden places
From song and dream for ever gone
Give me hunger
Gloom!
God
Gone are the three, those sisters rare
Good-by!—no, do not grieve that it is over
Good woman
Gray-robed Wanderer in steep … Wanderer
Green afternoon serene and bright, along my street you sail away
Grieve not for the invisible, transported brow
Grow weary if you will, let me be sad
Had he and I but met
Happy boy, happy boy
Have you been with the King to Rome
Have you seen walking through the village
Ha’ we lost the goodliest fere o’ all
Hear me, brother
He came and took me by the hand
He’d even have his joke
Here is a sack, a gunny sack
Here lies a most beautiful lady
Her face is fair and smooth and fine
He saw it last of all before they herded in the steerage
He’s gone
He threw his crutched stick down: there came
Ho, brother! Art thou prisoned too?
Hog-Butcher for the World
How have I labored?
How, how, he said. Friend Chang, I said
How like the stars are these white, nameless faces
How wild, how witch-like weird that life should be!
Hush ye! Hush ye! My babe is sleeping
I am Ah-woa-te, the Hunter
I am in love with high far-seeing places
I am singing to you
I am the wind that wavers
I am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
I ate at Ostendorff’s, and saw a dame
I cannot always feel his greatness
I cannot tell their wonder nor make known
I can not tell you now
I despise my friends more than you
I do not fear to die
I do not pray for peace nor ease
If I had known how narrow a prison is love
If I should die, think only this of me
If it
I flung my soul to the air like a falcon flying
I go my way complacently
I had a dream and I awoke with it
I had over-prepared the event
I have cast the world
I have come into the Desert because my soul is athirst
I have had one fear in my life
I have heard that a certain princess
I have heard them in the night
I have known the silence of the stars and of the sea
I have not where to lay my head:
I have seen an old street weeping
I have seen the proudest stars
I heard an old farm-wife
I heard one who said: Verily
I heard the wind all day
I hold your heart!
I loathed you, Spoon River
I loved a woman. The stars fell from heaven
I love my hour of wind and light
I love my life, but not too well
I made a vow once, one only
I make my shroud, but no one knows
In an old chamber softly lit
I never knew the earth had so much gold
In halls of sleep you wandered by
In New York Harbor
In the cloud-gray mornings
In the cold I will rise, I will bathe
In the dark and peace of my final bed
In the dawn I gathered cedar-boughs
In the Santa Clara Valley, far away and far away
In your arms was still delight
I reached the highest place in Spoon River
I said, I have shut my heart
I saw God. Do you doubt it?
I saw the archangels in my apple-tree last night
I saw the clouds among the hills
I saw the first pear
I saw with open eyes
I saw you hunched and shivering on the stones
I shake my hair in the wind of morning
I shall foot it
I shall see a star tonight
I sometimes wonder if it’s really true
Is there anybody there? said the Traveller
I think that I shall never see
It is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies
I’ve won the race
I walk down the garden paths
I was a goddess ere the marble found me
I went out on an April morning
I went to the dances at Chandlerville
I went up and down the streets
John Brown and Jeanne at Fontainebleau
Just as my fingers on these keys
Just now
King Solomon was the wisest man
Lady, your heart has turned to dust
Last night the full moon laid a cloth of white
Leave the lovely words unsaid
Let a joy keep you
Like a gondola of green scented fruits
Like a skein of loose silk blown against a wall
Like a young child who to his mother’s door
Like him whose spirit in the blaze of noon
Listen
Little brown surf-bather of the mountains!
Little my lacking fortunes show
Little park that I pass through
London, my beautiful
Long ago, in the young moonlight
Look at her—there she sits upon her throne
Look at the little darlings in the corn!
Look back with longing eyes and know that I will follow
Look—on the topmost branches of the world
Lord Gabriel, wilt thou not rejoice
Lo—to the battle-ground of life
Love has been sung a thousand ways
Love has gone and left me, and the days are all alike
Love me at last, or if you will not
Love suffereth all things
Mary, the Christ long slain, passed silently
Meditating on the glory of illustrious lineage
Mother, the poplars cross the moon
Music I heard with you was more than music
Musing, between the sunset and the dark
My City, my beloved, my white!
My enemy came high
My house stands high
My little one, sleep softly
My long two-pointed ladder’s sticking through a tree
My moon was lit in an hour of lilies
My mother taught me that every night
My mother twines me roses wet with dew
My son is dead and I am going blind
My sorrow that I am not by the little dun
My Sorrow, when she’s here with me
My soul goes clad in gorgeous things
My soul is a dark ploughed field
My thanks, friends of the County Scientific Association
My true love from her pillow rose
Near the great pyramid, unshadowed, white
Never the nightingale
No fawn-tinged hospital pajamas could cheat him of his austerity
Noises that strive to tear
No prey am I of poor thoughts
Now, God be thanked who has matched us with his hour
Now that I have cooled to you
Now while my lips are living
O brother tree! O brother tree! Tell to me, thy brother
O Earth-and-Autumn of the Setting Sun
O glass-blower of time
O great sun of heaven, harm not my love
Oh, beautiful are the flowers of your garden
Oh, seek me not within a tomb
Oh, the agony of having too much power!
O Kia-Kunæ, praise!
Old Age, the irrigator
O lonely workman, standing there
On and on
On a soaked fence-post a little blue-backed bird
Once the heavens’ gabled door
One by one, like leaves from a tree
One city only, of all I have lived in
One wept whose only child was dead
O pale! O vivid! dear!
Our door was shut to the noon-day heat
Out of me unworthy and unknown
Out of the deep and the dark
Out of the sparkling sea
Out of the window a sea of green trees
Over the green and yellow rice fields
Over the roof-tops race the shadows of clouds
O world, I cannot hold thee close enough!
O world that changes under my hand
Passing through huddled and ugly walls
Perhaps
Perhaps it is no matter that you died
Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir
Red slippers in a shop-window
Renew the vision of delight
Rose and amber was the sunset on the river
Roses and gold
See! I give myself to you, Beloved!
See, they return; ah, see the tentative
Serene the silver fishes glide
Seven full-paunched eunuchs came to me
She burst fierce wine
She has a clear, wind-sheltered loveliness
She heard the children playing in the sun
She knows a cheap release
She limps with halting painful pace
She must go back, she said
Since I have felt the sense of death
Sing we for love and idleness
Sing while you may, O bird upon the tree!
Sitting in his rocker waiting for your tea
Sleep, gray brother of death
Sleep on—I lie at heaven’s high oriels
Sleep softly … eagle forgotten … under the stone
Soft as the bed in the earth
Soft from the linden’s bough
So-Kin of Rakuho, ancient friend, I now remember
Some one complained to the Master
Something there is that doesn’t love a wall
Somewhere I read a strange, old, rusty tale
Splendid and terrible your love
Stir
Storm
Straight strength pitched into the surliness of the ditch
Stuff of the moon
Suddenly, out of dark and leafy ways
Sun and wind and beat of sea
Tell me
Tell me what you’re doing over here, John Gorham
That strange companion came on shuffling feet
The aged man, when he beheld winter approaching
The air is full of dawn and spring
The air is like a butterfly
The ancient songs
The Archer is wake!
The arches of the red bridge
The child who threw away leaf after leaf
The coral fisher, who had been a long time beneath the water
The darkness rolls upward
The darkness steals the forms of all the queens
The dawn was apple-green
The earth keeps some vibration going
The elder’s bridal in July
The emperors of fourteen dynasties
The endless, foolish merriment of stars
The exquisite painter Ko-tsu
The first time the emperor Han heard a certain Word
The hard sand breaks
The huge red-buttressed mesa over yonder
The lightning flashed, and lifted
The little pitiful, worn, laughing faces
The little rose is dust, my dear
The little white prayers
The long resounding marble corridors
The mountains they are silent folk
The old songs
The old West, the old time
The pale day drowses on the western steep
The poet Wong
The Ragpicker sits and sorts her rags
The rain was over, and the brilliant air
There by the window in the old house
There he moved, cropping the grass at the purple canyon’s lip
There is a bird in the poplars
There is a country full of wine
There’s one that I once loved so much
There was a strangeness on your lips
There was a time in former years
There was never a sound beside the wood but one
There were three in the meadow by the brook
The russet leaves of the sycamore
The sailor boy who leant over the side of the Junk of Many Pearls
These be
These hearts were woven of human joys and cares
The shadows of the ships
The ships are lying in the bay
The single clenched fist lifted and ready
The sky
The snow whispers about me
The stranger in my gates—lo! that am I
The swan existing
The throats of the little red trumpet-flowers are wide open
The very small children in patched clothing
The well was dry beside the door
The white church on the hill
They ask me where I’ve been
They brought me ambrotypes
They have dressed me up in a soldier’s dress
They in the darkness gather and ask
They set the slave free, striking off his chains
They threw a stone, you threw a stone
This is the song of youth
Those on the top say they know you, Earth—they are liars
Though I am little as all little things
Though your beauty be a flower
Thou hast made me known to friends whom I knew not
Three days I heard them grieve when I lay dead
To be able to see every side of every question
To come so soon to this imagined dark
To-night the little girl-nun died
To some the fat gods
To the passionate lover
To what shall a woman liken her beloved
Two rows of cabbages
Under dusky laurel leaf
Under the harvest moon
Unfold for men, O God, love’s true, creative day
Up and down he goes
Very well, you liberals
What am I, Life? A thing of watery halt
What dim Arcadian pastures
What do I owe to you
Whate’er our joy compelled
What has bent you
Whenever Richard Cory went down town
When I died, the circulating library
When I go back to earth
When I looked into your eyes
When I returned at sunset
When night drifts along the streets of the city
When the wind works against us in the dark
When you come tonight
Where are Elmer, Herman, Bert, Tom and Charley
Where shall I find you
While I stood listening, discreetly dumb
While my hair was still cut straight across my forehead
Whirl up, sea
White doves of Cytherea, by your quest
White foam flower, red flame flower
Who is the runner in the skies
Who loves the rain
Who will be naming the wind
Why are the things that have no death
Why do
Why do you always stand there shivering
Will you glimmer on the sea?
Within my hand I hold
Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me
Wrap the earth in cloudy weather
Yes, stars were with me formerly
You are beautiful and faded
You are clear
You are my companion
You are over there, Father Malloy
You go a long and lovely journey
Your body’s motion is like music
Your bow swept over a string
You say I touch the barberries
You that but seek your modest rolls and coffee


Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD