Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

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?