Periodical Poetry Index

Poets | Periodicals | Title Index | First Line Index | Search

Version | About | Using the Index | History | Join

First Lines P - S

Select to view citation

Paint me your perfect lady. I have seen
Pale Sisters! children of the craggy scree,
Peace on the Lake, and peace within my heart:
Peace! still thy sobbing. Grief has deemed it wise
Pearls hast thou and diamonds, dearest,
People have teased and vexed me,
People think, that for love I am wasting,
Perchance a death sough nobly, and sustained
Pilgrim, in Rome who seekest Rome, resign
Pity a helpless prisoner's woe,
Planets perpetuate the Gods of Greece,
Poor coat, well loved for many reasons,
Poor Matthias!--Found him lying
Power eternal, power unknown, uncreate:
Praise me no poets, dreamers, danglers,
Quick from fog and frost away,
Rabbi Ben Esdra to his dearest friend,
Renowned and reverenced of the wondering world
Rex, Rex amoris, ut Pastoris
Rozette, though my absence was brief,
Said he not well, the bard, who wrote with proud
Saint Barnabas's Church upon
Say, love, art thou not a vision?
Seamen, seamen, tell me true,
See where into the sunset far
See yonder castles old and hoar,
Sere autumn had bestrewn the ground
Shape after shape uprises
She comes, Spain's proud fleet comes! The ocean broad
She has given a ring to me, knowing
She is fair and she is young,
She lives in the smoky city
Shepherds, since my time is come
Shivering and wretchedly three poplars tall
Should a poet stoop to trifle,
Shout and sing, ye merry voices
Si pensare animas sinerent curdelia fata,
Silence and Night were alone in the forest; afar was the sound of the sea,
Since my love did me beguile,
Since you beg with such a grace,
Sing, and to you! No--no--with one note jarred
Sister Rose with the clear blue eye,
Sleep, and in peace? How canst thou?
Sleep, sleep, my pretty son,
So again I am pacing the well-known streets,
So long ago the hours of joy took flight--
So that wild Thrace--the Turkestan of old--
So this, then, was the Rovers' nest,
So you would kiss the poet's lip,
So you're going up to the Highlands? . . .
Soft arms about my throat,
Soft the wind-blow and sunshine
Somewhere have I seen her wander
Soon as our flocks from folds are led
Sorrow once wearied of his sad estate,
Sorrow, tears, and penitence
Spring came out of the woodland chase,
Steadily gallop on Skeidara sand
Steep was the climb from Valle: far below
Still is the night, and the streets are lone,
Stole away--stole away!' from the gorse in the hollow,
Strange times! Did ever such a plot
Strike up with fiddle and fife and guitar!
Sunrise! Sunrise! See!
Sure a terrible time I was out o' the way,
Sure this is blessed Erin, an' this the same glen!
Sure, maybe ye've heard the storm-thrush
Sweet flowers spring up, the fairest,
Sweet Love is dead: