INDEX OF FIRST LINES OF POEMS

About that strangest, saddest, sweetest song, [602].
A certain neighbor lying sick to death, [932].
Ah, but—because you were struck blind, could bless, [970].
Ah, but how each loved each, Marquis! [914].
Ah, did you once see Shelley plain, [195].
Ah, George Bubb Dodington Lord Melcombe,—no, [961].
Ah, Love, but a day, [373].
Ah, the bird-like fluting, [999].
A king lived long ago, [140].
All I believed is true, [255].
All I can say is—I saw it! [811].
All June I bound the rose in sheaves, [190].
All service ranks the same with God, [145].
All's over then: does truth sound bitter, [170].
All that I know, [185].
All the breath and the bloom of the year in the bag of one bee, [988].
Among these latter busts we count by scores, [283].
And so, here happily we meet, fair friend, [736].
And so you found that poor room dull, [814].
"And what might that bold man's announcement be," [933].
Anyhow, once full Dervish, youngsters came, [930].
A Rabbi told me: On the day allowed, [906].
A simple ring with a single stone, [988].
As I ride, as I ride, [165].
Ask not one least word of praise! [941].
"As like as a Hand to another Hand!" [375].
At the midnight in the silence of the sleep-time, [1007].
"Ay, but, Ferishtah,"—a disciple smirked, [939].
Ay, this same midnight, by this chair of mine, [952].
Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead! [171].
Boot, saddle, to horse, and away! [163].
But do not let us quarrel any more, [346].
But give them me, the mouth, the eyes, the brow! [395].
Christ God, who savest man, save most, [252].
Cleon the poet, from the sprinkled isles, [358].
Come close to me, dear friends; still closer: thus! [12].
Crescenzio, the Pope's Legate at the High Council, Trent, [991].
Dared and done: at last I stand upon the summit, Dear and True! [849].
Dear and great Angel, would'st thou only leave, [194].
Dear, had the world in its caprice, [191].
Dervish—though yet un-dervished, call him so, [929].
Don, the divinest women that have walked, [955].
"Enter my palace," if a prince should say, [947].
Escape me? [191].
Eyes, calm beside thee (Lady, couldst thou know!) [11].
"Fame!" Yes, I said it and you read it. First, [859].
Fear death?—to feel the fog in my throat, [395].
Fee, faw, fum! bubble and squeak! [281].
Fire is in the flint: true, once a spark escapes, [934].
First I salute this soil of the blessed, river and rock, [877].
Flame at my footfall, Parnassus! Apollo, [948].
Flower—I never fancied, jewel—I profess you! [812].
Flower o' the broom, [342].
Fortù, Fortù, my beloved one, [260].
Frowned the Laird on the Lord: So, red-handed I catch thee? [993].
Give her but a least excuse to love me, [137].
Going his rounds one day in Ispahan, [920].
Goldoni—good, gay, sunniest of souls, [910].
Good, to forgive, [849].
Grand rough old Martin Luther, [266].
Grow old along with me! [383].
Gr-r-r—there go, my heart's abhorrence! [167].
Had I but plenty of money, money enough and to spare, [174].
Hamelin Town's in Brunswick, [268].
Heap cassia, sandal-buds and stripes, [36].
"Heigho," yawned one day King Francis, [256].
Here is a story, shall stir you! Stand up, Greeks dead and gone, [892].
Here is a thing that happened. Like wild beasts whelped, for den, [879].
Here's my case. Of old I used to love him, [811].
Here's the garden she walked across, [166].
Here's to Nelson's memory! [166].
Here was I with my arm and heart, [380].
He was the man—Pope Sixtus, that Fifth, that swineherd's son, [992].
High in the dome, suspended, of Hell, sad triumph, behold us, [916].
Hist, but a word, fair and soft! [195].
How I lived, ere my human life began, [1004].
How of his fate, the Pilgrims' soldier-guide, [936].
How strange!—but, first of all, the little fact, [974].
How very hard it is to be, [327].
How well I know what I mean to do, [185].
I am a goddess of the ambrosial courts, [337].
I am a painter who cannot paint, [137].
I am indeed the personage you know, [817].
I am poor brother Lippo, by your leave! [342].
I and Clive were friends—and why not? [893].
I could have painted pictures like that youth's, [341].
I dream of a red-rose tree, [193].
If a stranger passed the tent of Hóseyn, he cried "A churl's!" [897].
If one could have that little head of hers, [396].
If you and I could change to beasts, what beast should either be? [989].
I hear a voice, perchance I heard, [22].
I know a Mount, the gracious Sun perceives, [361].
I know there shall dawn a day, [1005].
I leaned on the turf, [374].
I—"Next Poet?" No, my hearties, [807].
I only knew one poet in my life, [336].
I said—Then, dearest, since 'tis so, [267].
Is all our fire of shipwreck wood, [373].
I send my heart up to thee, all my heart, [262].
I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he, [164].
It happened thus: my slab, though new, [990].
It is a lie—their Priests, their Pope, [169].
It once might have been, once only, [396].
It seems as if ... or did the actual chance, [959].
It was roses, roses, all the way, [251].
I've a Friend, over the sea, [258].
I will be happy if but for once, [987].
I will be quiet and talk with you, [374].
I wish that when you died last May, [395].
I wonder do you feel to-day, [189].
John, Master of the Temple of God, [280].
June was not over, [190].
Just for a handful of silver he left us, [164].
Karshish, the picker-up of learning's crumbs, [338].
Kentish Sir Byng stood for his King, [163].
King Charles, and who'll do him right now? [163].
"Knowledge deposed, then!"—groaned whom that most grieved, [940].
Last night I saw you in my sleep, [989].
Let's contend no more, Love, [171].
Let them fight it out, friend! things have gone too far, [193].
Let the watching lids wink! [130].
Let us begin and carry up this corpse, [279].
"Look, I strew beans," [942].
Man I am and man would be, Love—merest man and nothing more, [933].
May I print, Shelley, how it came to pass, [821].
Morning, evening, noon and night, [253].
Moses the Meek was thirty cubits high, [927].
My father was a scholar and knew Greek, [1002].
My first thought was, he lied in every word, [287].
My grandfather says he remembers he saw, when a youngster long ago, [875],
My heart sank with our Claret-flask, [166].
My love, this is the bitterest, that thou, [187].
Nay but you, who do not love her, [170].
Nay, _that_, Furini, never I at least, [964].
Never any more, [192].
Never the time and the place, [928].
Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the Northwest died away, [179].
"No, boy, we must not"—so began, [823].
No, for I'll save it! Seven years since, [412].
No more wine? then we'll push back chairs, and talk, [349].
No protesting, dearest! [814].
Not with my Soul, Love!—bid no soul like mine, [940].
Now, don't, sir! Don't expose me! Just this once! [397].
Now that I, tying thy glass mask tightly, [168].
O bell' andare, [70].
Of the million or two, more or less, [254].
Oh, but is it not hard, Dear? [916].
Oh Galuppi, Baldassare, this is very sad to find! [175].
Oh, good gigantic smile o' the brown old earth, [375].
Oh Love! Love, thou that from the eyes diffusest, [874].
Oh, Love—no, Love! All the noise below, Love, [946].
Oh, the beautiful girl, too white, [577].
Oh, to be in England, [179].
Oh, what a dawn of day! [172].
Oh worthy of belief I hold it was, [909].
Once I saw a chemist take a pinch of powder, [938].
One day, it thundered and lightened, [916].
Only the prism's obstruction shows aright, [395].
On the first of the Feast of Feasts, [413].
On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two, [815].
O the old wall here! How I could pass, [802].
Others may need _new_ life in Heaven, [988].
O trip and skip, Elvire! Link arm in arm with me! [702].
Out of the little chapel I burst, [318].
Out of your whole life give but a moment! [988].
Overhead the treetops meet, [144].
Over the ball of it, [810].
Over the sea our galleys went, [38].
Past we glide, and past, and past! [262].
Pauline, mine own, bend o'er me—thy soft breast, [2].
_Petrus Aponensis_—there was a magician! [899].
Plague take all your pedants, say I! [167].
Pray, Reader, have you eaten ortolans, [929].
Query: was ever a quainter, [802].
Quoth an inquirer, Praise the Merciful! [934].
Quoth one: Sir, solve a scruple! No true sage, [937].
Room after room, [191].
Round the cape of a sudden came the sea, [170].
Round us the wild creatures, overhead the trees, [930].
Said Abner, "At last thou art come! Ere I tell, ere thou speak, [179].
Savage I was sitting in my house, late, lone, [735].
See, as the prettiest graves will do in time, [170].
Shakespeare!—to such name's sounding, what succeeds, [947].
Shall I sonnet-sing you about myself? [808].
She should never have looked at me, [169].
Sighed Rawdon Brown: Yes, I'm departing, Toni! [947].
Sing me a hero! Quench my thirst, [887].
So far as our story approaches the end, [267].
So, friend, your shop was all your house! [809].
So, I shall see her in three days, [192].
Solomon King of the Jews and the Queen of Sheba, Balkis, [913].
Some people hang portraits up, [396].
"So say the foolish!" Say the foolish so, Love? [988].
So, the head aches and the limbs are faint! [936].
So, the three Court-ladies began, [991].
So, the year's done with! [170].
Stand still, true poet that you are! [195].
Still ailing, Wind? Wilt be appeased or no? [374].
Still you stand, still you listen, still you smile! [812].
Stop, let me have the truth of that! [379].
Stop playing, poet! May a brother speak? [335].
Stop rowing! This one of our bye-canals, [994].
Such a starved bank of moss, [859].
Supposed of Pamphylax the Antiochene, [385].
Suppose that we part (work done, comes play), [928].
Take the cloak from his face, and at first, [194].
That fawn-skin-dappled hair of hers, [190].
That oblong book's the Album; hand it here! [773].
That second time they hunted me, [258].
That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, [252].
That was I, you heard last night, [189].
The bee with his comb, [144].
The blind man to the maiden said, [910].
The fancy I had to-day, [701].
The gods I ask deliverance from these labors, [831].
The gray sea and the long black land, [170].
The Lord, we look to once for all, [280].
The morn when first it thunders in March, [176].
The moth's kiss, first! [262].
The Poet's age is sad: for why? [987].
"The poets pour us wine—" [827].
The rain set early in to-night, [286].
There is nothing to remember in me, [376].
There's a palace in Florence, the world knows well, [283].
There's a woman like a dew-drop, she's so purer than the purest, [220].
There's heaven above, and night by night, [341].
There they are, my fifty men and women, [361].
The swallow has set her six young on the rail, [373].
The year's at the spring, [133].
"They tell me, your carpenters," quoth I to my friend the Russ, [880].
This is a spray the Bird clung to, [189].
This now, this other story makes amends, [918].
This strange thing happened to a painter once, [996].
This was my dream; I saw a Forest, [990].
Thou, whom these eyes saw never! Say friends true, [948].
Thus I wrote in London, musing on my betters, [910].
Touch him ne'er so lightly, into song he broke, [910].
'T was Bedford Special Assize, one daft Midsummer's Day, [887].
Up jumped Tokay on our table, [166].
Up, up, up—next step of the staircase, [979].
Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity! [348].
Verse-making was least of my virtues: I viewed with despair, [939].
Wanting is—what? [911].
We two stood simply friend-like side by side, [991].
We were two lovers; let me lie by her, [812].
What are we two? [263].
What girl but, having gathered flowers, [988].
What, he on whom our voices unanimously ran, [992].
What, I disturb thee at thy morning meal, [938].
What is he buzzing in my ears? [394].
What it was struck the terror into me? [1001].
What's become of Waring, [264].
When I vexed, you and you chid me, [937].
Where the quiet-colored end of evening smiles, [171].
Who hears of Helen's Tower, may dream perchance, [601].
Who will, may hear Sordello's story told, [75].
"Why?" Because all I haply can and do, [948].
Why from the world, Ferishtah smiled, should thanks, [946].
Will sprawl, now that the heat of day is best, [392].
Will you hear my story also, [911].
Wind, wave, and bark, bear Euthukles and me, [628].
Wish no word unspoken, want no look away, [930].
Woe, he went galloping into the war, [987].
Would a man 'scape the rod? [372].
Would it were I had been false, not you! [378].
Would that the structure Wave, the manifold music I build, [382].
Yet womanhood you reverence, [993].
"You are sick, that's sure,"—they say, [892].
You blame me that I ran away? [993].
You groped your way across my room i' the drear dark dead of night, [932].
You have seen better days, dear? So have I, [682].
You in the flesh and here, [989].
You know, we French stormed Ratisbon, [251].
You'll love me yet!—and I can tarry, [142].
You're my friend, [271].
Your ghost will walk, you lover of trees, [178].