Index by First Line

A cypress-bough, and a rose-wreath sweet,
A ghost, that loved a lady fair,
A ho! A ho!
A veined petal closes over
All kingdomless is thy old head,
Although my old ear
An amorous cloud
And many voices marshalled in one hymn
As mad sexton’s bell, tolling
As sudden thunder
At break of bright May-morning,
Ay, ay: good man, kind father, best of friends—
Can it then be, that the earth loved some city,
Come lift your head from that sad pillow, lady,
“Come with me, thou gentle maid,
Dead, is he? What’s that further than a word,
Ever love the lily pale,
Far away,
Folly hath now turned out of door
Hard by the lilied Nile I saw
“Harpagus, hast thou salt enough,
Has no one seen my heart of you?
Help! help, you kindly people of this place!
Her kisses are
His thoughts are so much higher than his state,
Hist, oh hist!
How lovely is the heaven of this night,
How many times do I love thee, dear?
Hushed be sighing, near the string,
I fear there is some maddening secret
I followed once a fleet and mighty serpent
I know not whether
I love thee and I love thee not,
I think of thee at day-break still,
If I can raise one ghost, why I will raise
If there were dreams to sell,
If thou wilt ease thine heart
I’ll speak again:
I’ll take that fainting rose
In every tower, that Oxford has, is swung,
In lover’s ear a wild voice cried:
In the twilight, silent smiled
Is it not sweet to die? for, what is death,
Is it Zenobio?
It is midnight, my wedded;
Its impossible ascent was steep,
Just now a beam of joy hung on his eye-lash;
Lady, was it fair of thee
Last night I looked into a dream; ’twas drawn
Leaf after leaf, like a magician’s book
Leaf after life, like a magician’s book,
Let dew the flowers fill;
Let him lean
Long have I racked my brains for rhymes to please,
Luckless man
Maiden, thou sittest alone above,
Merry, merry little stream,
Mummies and skeletons, out of your stones;
My goblet’s golden lips are dry,
My Lyre! thou art the bower of my senses,
No sunny ray, no silver night,
No tears, no sighings, no despair,
O give not up the promise of your time
O what a deep delight it is to cleave,
Oh those were happy days, heaped up with wine-skins,
O’er the snow, through the air, to the mountain,
Old Adam, the carrion crow,
Over the water an old ghost strode
Pitiful post-diluvians! from whose hearts
Poor old pilgrim Misery,
Proserpine may pull her flowers,
Shall I be your first love, lady, shall I be your first?
Shivering in fever, weak, and parched to sand,
Sing me no more such ditties: they are well
Sing on, sing ever, and let sobs arise
Snow-drop of dogs, with ear of brownest dye,
So buckled tight in scaly resolution,
Soft! Stand away! those features—Do not stir!
Sorrow! Hast thou seen Sorrow asleep,
Squats on a toad-stool under a tree
Strew not earth with empty stars,
Strike, you myrtle-crowned boys,
The bitter past
The blue, between yon star-nailed cloud
The earth is bright, her forests all are golden;
The form’s divinity, the heart’s best grace,
The hour is starry, and the airs that stray,
The king looks well, red in its proper place
The knight he left the maid,
The lake, like her, heaves gently
The mighty thought of an old world
The moon doth mock and make me crazy,
The Snake is come out,
The swallow leaves her nest,
The world is born to-day!
There is a mighty, magic tree,
There smiles methinks
There stood a city along Cyprus’ side
There’s a fellow
Think, what I plead for: for a life! the gift
Thy gloomy features, like a midnight dial,
To her couch of evening rest
To sea, to sea! The calm is o’er;
Today a truant from the odd, old bones
To-day is a thought, a fear is to-morrow,
True I have had much comfort gazing on thee,
‘Twas in those days
Under the lime-tree, on the daisied ground,
We do lie beneath the grass
We have bathed, where none have seen us,
Wee, wee tailor,
What’s this? Did you not see a white convulsion
When we were girl and boy together,
Where the hare-bells are ringing
Who findeth comfort in the stars and flowers
Who is the baby, that doth lie
Who tames the lion now?
Why, Rome was naked once, a bastard smudge,
Why what’s the world and time? a fleeting thought
Wild with passion, sorrow-beladen,
Will you sleep these dark hours, maiden,
Woe! woe ! this is death’s hour
Write it in gold—A spirit of the sun,