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First Lines T - V

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Ten mile in twenty minutes! 'E done it, sir. That's true.
Terrible city brooding at my feet!
That singer who in Italy of old
That spirit of wit, whose quenchless ray
That was the flashing of Orion's spear
The azure eyes of spring-time
The bier descends, strewn with the snow-white rose,
The butterfly is with the rose in love,
The centre of this universe of stars
The curtain's falling, and the lights burn low,
The enormous hills run smoothly down
The fields are all sweet with hay,
The fire is in a steadfast glow,
The fourscore years that blanch the heads of men
The girl is asleep in her chamber,
The girl who once on Phrygian heights,
The humblest and frailest grassy blade
The linden blossom'd, the nightingale sung,
The marble bears his name, and tells his story.
The men who builded Babel, day by day
The midnight hour was drawing on;
The midnight was cold, and still, and sad,
The modest corps was honoured in a roaring parting toast,
The moon is up, and shining
The mother stood at the window;
The mountain-tops above the mist
The night before, at Bridgewater
The night is come with all her silver train,
The night is still, the windows are open,
The night, it is damp and stormy,
The old-world builder reared his mount of stone
The parting year was by such triumph crowned
The Pater noster is a goodly prayer,
The Piper, he laughed with a scorn that stung,
The Poet closed his eyes, and lay supinely
The ripple laps along the churchyard wall
The road was straight, the afternoon was grey,
The rose, the lily, the sun, and the dove,
The sandy ridges of that barren plain
The sea loomed wide, a shining flat,
The shimmer of the Moon has lit the Vale
The ship Britannia sailed away
The silent grave! nay, leave her not among
The solemn throbbing of the drum,
The Spring has passed this way. Look! where she trod
The story of our love is incomplete;
The strong hot breath of the land is lashing
The supercargo, Mynheer van Koek,
The tall house lowers grimly,
The tent is pitched for sleeping in where cottonwoods are green,
The Terek rages fierce and fast
The thick lid of night closed upon me
The traitor priest Cassoli has done as was foretold;
The trumpeters in a row,
The twilight has died in darkness,
The violets blue of those eyes of thine,
The waning autumn moon looks
The winter morning as I write--
The winter winds were blawing cauld,
The woodland! And a golden wedge
The world is so fair, and the sky so blue,
The wrack was dark an' shiny where it floated in the sea,
The wrinkled Winter has no power
Then, whilst the Son of Ammon from the west
There dwelt of late by TIber's flow
There is a long straight road in Lombardy
There is a noble beauty in this land,
There is a universe within,
There is a Word,
There is no commonplace!
There stood a castle long ago, that lordly was to view,
There sweeps across the ocean foam
There's a widow Lady worthy of a word of kindly tone
There, 'ang up the bill-'ook, missus, and give us my pipe and a light;
Therefore blaze on, ye vernal altar fires
They both were in love, but neither
They have company coming this evening,
They told thee much, much they invented,
This is the sentence
This is the wonderful story
This is your picture, just as you were
This kiss,--take it quickly, my Heart!--
This tediousness in death is irksome, lords,
This white-leaved flower with heart of gold
Thou art even as a flower is,
Thou art not clamorous. Nay, thy silvery tongue
Thou hast passed from life, and thou knowest it not;
Thou silent orb of Night,
Though we have said good-bye
Three houses all alike, all piteous
Through the casement the wind is moaning,
Through the wild Babel of our fever'd time
Thy face, so sweet and fair to see,
Tim Black is bedridden, you say?
Tis morning! and the 12th of August:
Tis no doubt pleasant
Tis not that she is grown less fair,
To him whose love flows on--beyond the shore
To my Long Suit you pay no attention at all,
To you, O airy band,
To-day, to-day, only show valiant face,
To-night the sea is sleeping, and the air
To-night with noise of multitudinous rills,
Tomfools in their Sunday clothes ramble
True, Philip may have erred; but now at least
Udai Chand lay sick to death
Under the 'daisy quilt,'
Underneath their eider-robe
Unshunnable is grief; we should not fear
Up started Gunnar from his sleep, as a weird and woful sound
Upon her ocean-beaten throne she sate--
Upon his palace roof he stood,
Upon my eyes lay midnight,
Upon the cherry-bough the blackbird sings
Use well the moment; what the hour
Victoria! Empress Queen! and widowed Wife!