The Periodical Poetry Index

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[First Line Index] .. [G-J]



First Lines G - J

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Get up, get up, my merrie young men,
Give me the pleasure of a book,
Glorious in all thy phases--black or bright,
Go north and south on German ground,
Gone from our eyes, a loss for evermore,
Gone from us! that strong singer of late days
Grandmother dear, you do not know; you have lived the old-world life,
Great men and little men;
Great thoughts of mighty minds that crown
Gudewife, we're gettin' auld;
Gutterslush, one of the million,
Ha, my old friend! so, you've come back again!
Half-Greek adown the Highland glen
Happy is he who hears, with brow elate,
Hark to the roar and the howling,
Hark to yon fiddling and fluting,
Hark! Hark to my neighbour's flute!
Has she never, then, given token
Have all the songs been said?
He came, saw, and was conquered. Lady mine,
He had played for his lordship's levee,
He hears dim voices in the void
He is coming, my boy, he is coming! Hark, how the trumpets wail!
He sailed across the glittering seas that swept
He sat upon a pinnacle alone,
He served not lower gods: with pure desire
He sleeps!
He was always a fool--Tom Lake--and we were always telling him so,
He was born in Ballytearim, where there's little work to do,
He, prophet-like, beheld the coming years
Hear how the stars and stripes, above stripes the stars,
Heard ye the thunder of battle
Heart sickness, that of old the wise man new
Heart, heart mine, no longer vex thee,
Hence Thrasybulus' eagle-swoop struck down
Her human heart was given,
Here lie we, baby, all alone,
Here where across the marl-pit's lone expanse
Here would the beauty-loving Greek beguile
Here, child! Is this the way to Arcady?
High o'er the crag the poised eagle flies,
High o'er the forest the storm-clouds are flying,
High over the lamp-post, high over the street,
His equidem vivam florentibus incola pratis:
Ho! where is the knight or the squire so bold,
Home--but not to thee, sweet,
Homer, thy song we liken to the sea,
Hours, weeks, and days bring round the golden moon;
How do we measure life? How "shape our ends"
How oft I've watched her footstep glide
How often doth the march of coming ill
How time flies! Have we been talking
How, facing an unconquerable foe,
How?--when?--and where?--the gods give no reply;
Hush! let me hear of love no more
Hushed as the grave is the village, and now from the belfry tower,
I a most ill-starr'd Atlas! I am doom'd
I always thought the law was sure, although its course was long;
I am building o'er buried pleasures
I am not wroth, my own lost love, although
I am the Princess Ilse,
I at morn get up, and "Will she
I at the banquet of the Gods have sate
I came to a deserted inn,
I cannot imagine what daunts me,
I do not ask remembrance in your hours
I dreamed that we were lovers still,
I dreamt of a monarch's daughter fair,
I follow thee as doth the patient earth
I grant, Don John, the lily and rose that, rarely
I had a dream last night,
I had a dream; the moon looked drear,
I have weathered the turbulent cape of storms
I in these flowery meads would be:
I know him well; no hard is he to know,
I know of a noble Lady
I left the yew tree's shadow, thrown
I look from my lonely window
I mind myself a wee boy wi' no plain talk,
I mind the day I'd wish I was a say-gull flyin' far,--
I passed a night of anguish and of fear
I roam through the wood heavy-hearted,
I sat on a grey crag of Scotland's shore,
I see thee nightly in dreams, my sweet,
I sing the Hymn of the Conquered, who fell in the battle of life--
I slept,--my sleep was soft and sweet,
I stand alone upon a mountain height
I stand in the hush of the hastening river,
I stood on her picture gazing,
I stood one shining morning where
I think when I look back from some high sphere
I wanted to linger about you,
I was fashioned long ago
I was wanderin' dro' the thicket, hot and wet, and night a-comin':
I watched the players playing on their stage;
I will sing a Greek, the wisest
I will sing of Saxon Alfred--
I will steep my fainting spirit
I'll tell, in simple way,
I'm certain, in that hour of bliss
I've a jar of Alban wine
If ever at the fount of joy
If I could love thee, Love, a little more,
If I should leave my home, and go away
If I were King of France, that noble fine land,
If pleasure were the aim and end of all,
If the little flowers knew how deep
If thou dost but pass before me,
Immortal Verse! Is mine the strain
Immovable, unchanging,
Imperial battles' last avengers stand:
In a dream I saw my darling,
In after years a twilight ghost shall fill
In an old-world temple two blocks of stone,
In ancient tales, O friend, thy spirit dwelt;
In dreams, oh, I have wept, love!
In last Septimber it was, whin the weather is mostly grand,
In my lonely first despair, it
In old O'Driscol's pedigree,
In prison pent of Personality,
In Spring God shakes hands, and we know Him:
In still retreat a thoughtful talent thrives,
In sweetest dream, at dead of night,
In the ages of Faith, before the day
In the fantastic wonderland of night,
In the garden, 'neath the twilight,
In the old Priory garden the friars pace to and fro,
Insanitary Spectors, void of common-sense and brains,
Intent on bloody sport,
Into yon halls I stept,
Irrevocabilis
Is there a pleasure can with this compare?--
Ishtar the Beautiful, whom some call Love,
It comes evermore while we carelessly sing,
It is the hour when all things rest:
It may be speech can ease the troubled heart,
It was the day that tuneful Pindar sent
It was the point of dawn; and in the bow
It's but a month the morn