Author:Florence Earle Coates/Index of First Lines

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Index of First Lines
Contents: Top · A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z

Poems (1898)
Pro Patria (1917)

Links are to most recent version.

A beggar, bent beneath the weight of years.
A coward is man, yet a hero.
A dreamer midst the stars doth dwell.
A dying man, so say you, wrote this book.
A moment, Death!—only a moment more!
A narrow window may let in the light.
A Rose-tree, all ablush with opening flowers.
A single rose in yonder ruined bed.
A transient city, marvellously fair.
A waste of heaving waters to the far horizon's rim.
Adieu! I know that I no more.
After the darkness, dawning.
Ah, yes; the French surprise us constantly.
All are not strangers whom we so misname.
All eyes upon him centred, motionless.
All ugliness wears on its brow the brand.
Alone, alone in the still, deserted room.
Alone by the waves, on a starlight night.
Also for these that with us bear.
Although the faiths to which we fearful clung.
Amid ferns and mosses brown.
An epicure in Pleasure's mart.
Apart from all.
As a wan weaver in an attic dim.
As Douglas to his castle came.
As mute against the gate of life you sit.
As one grows weary dragging at the chain.
As one who faring o'er a desert plain.
As shakes the breast of giant Kaf.
As the mother-bird to the waiting nest.
As when the imperial bird, wide-circling, soars.
Ask what you will, I must obey your hest!
At first the birds—so runs the gentle story.
At last, for weariness.
At twilight here I sit alone.
Ave! Thou goest from us.
Awake, my soul!

Be thou my guide, and I will walk in darkness.
Before we knew thee thou wert with us; aye.
Belovèd thou hast triumphed everywhere.
Better to die, where gallant men are dying.
Bid farewell with pride.
Blessèd: so have they named her. With just pride.
Blest is the right to share.
Both your hands? . . . What mean they, dear?
Breakers that beat against the shore.
Breathless we strive, contending for success.
Britannia, they who perished here have crowned thee.
By the germinating seed.
By the pyramid of Caius Sestius.

Come home! The Land that sent you forth.
Contemplative and fair, with look divine.
Couldst thou—thou, also, die, whom life so cherished?
Cover your face, Humanity, and weep.

Day is stealing down the West.
Dear God, I raised my boy to be a soldier.
Dear, when you came the day was bright.
Death called,—but why did you go?
Death pitying stood before me bent and old.
Death took away from me my heart's desire.
Death wished to borrow something of thy grace.
Deem not, O Pain, that thou shall vanquish me.
Didst thou rejoice because the day was fair.
Divine abstraction, shadowy image, dream.
Down-gazing, I behold.
Dream the Great Dream, though you should dream—you, only.

Early and late, one day but as another.
Earth has her blossoms, and the sea his shells.
Earth, mother dear, I turn at last.
Evermore I hear my name.
Every night at Marathon.

Fairer than violets are.
Far, far the mountain-peak from me.
Far off there is a realm of wonder.
Far up the crag, 'twixt sea and sky.
Father, I lift my hands to Thee.
Fear not that I shall tell the world.
Fond Youth and Age met face to face.
For each and every joyful thing.
For love of justice and for love of truth.
For me the jasmine buds unfold.
Foreboding sudden of untoward change.
France has no dungeon in her island tomb.
Franklin! our Franklin! America's loved son!
Friendship from its moorings strays.
Full slow to part with her best gifts is Fate.
Further and further we leave the scene.

Give me not love that would enthrall.
Give us one dream!.
Giver and Gift!
Glad is the grove with light.
Go not too far—too far beyond my gaze.
Golden their days have been, for love is golden.
Greatest of modern painters, he is dead!
Great-hearted son of the Titan mother, Earth.

Had Henley died, his course half run.
Had we the present—only that, no more!
Hail, Solitude! hail, maiden coy and sweet!
Happiness is everywhere!.
Hark! Do I dream? Nay, even now I heard.
Harken, heroic England! Know how near.
Hast thou for honor laid ambition down?
He and I,—and that was all.
He came to us with dreams to sell.
He cursed the day that he was born.
He gave his life to Music,—gave.
He gave me all, and then he laid me by.
He gazed, the little vagrant lad.
He made it pure.
He raised the hemlock to his lips.
He sang of joy; whate'er he knew of sadness.
He saw the myriad blooming plants.
He seemed to call me, and I shrank dismayed.
He stood alone, despairing and forsaken.
He stood alone, in sovereignty sublime.
He was of those who knew that love is giving.
He was so small, so very small.
He went singing down to death.
Her cheek is like a tinted rose.
Her spirit is to France a living spring.
Heroes with eloquent flags unfurled.
Hope smiles a welcome, if no other smiles.
How beautiful to live as thou didst live!
How do you know that Spring is nigh.
How fair you are, wondrous maiden.
How glad you must be to lie at rest.
How had it been, my belovèd.
How living are the dead!
How long must we blush for the land of our love.
How should I dream but you were old.
How should we think of her as dead.
How sweet it is 'neath apple-blooms to lie.
How terrible the victory.
How wonderful is love!

I am a dream.
I am calling together my sons.
I am the key that parts the gates of Fame.
I do not ask to know.
I gathered them—the lilies pure and pale.
I had a dream of Greatness; and I saw.
I hear thy voice!
I heard a voice say: You.
I know a place, warm-sheltered from the world.
I know not how to find the Spring.
I know the Summer fell asleep.
I lay upon my narrow bed.
I lift my eyes, but I cannot see.
I longed for love, and, eager to discover.
I looked from out my window once.
I looked on beauteous forms, as I lay dreaming.
I looked on Sorrow, tragical and dread.
I marvel not that they have loved you so.
I said, She is gone from the grieving earth.
I saw a soul contended for.
I seemed to see thy spirit leave the clay.
I think our alley's darker now.
I thought on England in her tragic hour.
I thought that past the gates of doom.
I, too, have loved the Greeks, the Hero-sprung.
I war against the folly that is War.
I was born as free as the silver light.
I weave the beginning, I fashion the end.
I who am ever young.
I, who am Love, come clothed in mystery.
I will be still.
I woke and heard the thrushes sing at dawn.
I woke in suffering, and sadly heard.
If it be true, as some aver.
If love were but a little thing.
If love were not, the wilding rose.
If only in my dreams I may behold you.
If tasting Heliconian springs.
If they tell you that we hold.
If thou art living, in that Devil's Isle.
If thou be crowned, or if thou be not crowned.
If you no more should love me?—you?
In dreamland is a castle fair.
In far-off plains of Picardy
In her arms unconscious lying.
In Montepulciano fair.
In Orient mystery.
In Radnor Valley, from the world apart.
In the arid and desolate places of life.
In the beginning was I born.
In the blue, cloudless heaven.
In the heart of the forest arising.
Into the light where beauty doth not pale.
Into the theatre they came.
Is he alone? The myriad stars shine o'er him.
Is the promise of day merely darkness.
Is this the place? So still!—as with the hush.
It is not the desert lonely.
It rises by a frozen mere.
It rose, and swam into the sky.
It will be long ere 'neath the sunlight dimpling.

Last night a shape of fear. (from Part II: In the surgical ward)
Last night I dreamed, mine enemy.
Leaving my tent once as the dawn grew fair.
Let me believe you, love, or let me die!
Life has its limitations manifold.
Life is like a beauteous flower.
Life laid upon his forehead a caress.
Listen, O listen! 'T is the thrush—God bless him!.
Little sister, everywhere.
Live thy life gallantly and undismayed.
Love came into the world and said.
Love conquers Death by night and day.
Love, dost thou smile, believing thou shalt cheat.
Love has no foes; where'er he goes.
Love is dying; lay him low.
Love is enough: were all we fondly cherish.
Love is passing through the street.
Love never is too late; it sums.
Love sailed at morn in a fragile bark.
Love that faltered for an hour.

Maiden of the laughing eyes.
Man, that will not be beguiled.
Methinks, the Blessèd was content, her journey overpast.
Midst noble monuments, alone at eve.
Midst rejoicings I have wept.
Might I return to that May-day of gladness.
Mother of Freedom! Mother and fond nurse.
Mother of men, who long ago.
My brother's face is turned from me.
My friend leaned o'er the flowery brink.
My garden, long time desolate.
My laddie's a' the world to me!
My love is fairer than the tasselled corn.
My parents had great joy, I wis.
"My son is dead!" the aged woman wailed.
My soul is fain to drink of joy.
My store is spent; I am fain to borrow.
My true-love's eyes are a surprise.

Near where the royal victims fell.
No more, dear heart—no more I moan.
Not far from Paris, in fair Fontainebleau.
Nothing that man's creative mind hath wrought.
Nothing that we deem can die.
Now gracious plenty rules the board.

O aged man, pray, if you know.
O ashes of Gautama, once the shrine.
O beauty! vision of forgotten gladness!.
O little plant, so meek and slight.
O music of divine imagining!
O Nature! overmastered by thy power.
O Thou into whose human hand is given.
O thou, sublime, who on the throne.
O'er-topping all—upon how lone a height!.
Of Love the gods require no task.
Old as the race of man.
On that divine all-hallowed morn.
Once a man set forth at morning.
Once in a still, sequestered place.
Once lovely Venus to her wayward boy.
One, in her service, patient wrought.
One spot of green, watered by hidden streams.
Others endure Man's rule: he therefore deems.
Others may see thee; I behold thee not.
Our days by deeds are numbered,—and by dreams.
Our single lives are circled round.[1]
Our single lives are circled round.

Pale priestess of a fame discredited.
Patient she is—long-suffering, our Land.
Peace! for the silver bugles play.
Peace!—mourn no more the martyr's fate!.
Peace to-night, heroic spirit!
Pilgrims of the trackless deep.
Poet, it was your soul created her.
Poet, why wilt thou wander far afield.
Poor Icarus!—to soar so high.
Poor Love! said Life, that hast nor gold.

Reproach not Death, nor charge to him, in wonder.
"Respect the Future, which belongs to me!"
Rodin's it was—this vital thing, this Soul.
Roses are but for a day.

Say, hast thou never been compelled to lie.
Say not the gods are cruel
Seventy-five glad years of blessing.
She cannot wind the distaff.
She dances.
She dwelt apart, as one whom love passed by.
She had been stricken, sorely, ere this came.
She laid her head upon the straw.
She leaned above the river's sedgy brink.
She said: My babe is dead.
She stood a vision vestureless and fair.
She waits for man, and leads him artfully.
She will not hear you if you sing.
Silent amidst unbroken silence deep.
So war has begun, they say.
So you love me, have no care.
Softly, with palpitating heart.
"Some things I never would forgive".
Something I may not win attracts me ever.
Sorrow, quit me for a while!
Sweet are the woodland notes.
Sweet is the birth of love, and the awakening.
Swelling bud and fond suggestion.

'T is I have been waiting to know, dear.
"'T is over—all over!" the mourner said.
'T is the front toward life that matters most.
'T were little to renounce what now I hold.
Tell us of beauty! Touch thy silver lyre.
Tender grass in April springing.
Thank God, a man can grow!
That Love has wings the poets say.
The air is full of balm, I know.
The air is full of perfume and the promise of the spring.
The Austrians at Arcola.
The birds returning seem so glad.
The children played at naming, every one.
The clouds give back to earth again.
The day, from slumber waking, dawns most fair.
The earth is mine and its myriad flowers.
The end of life is living.
The friend I loved betrayed my trust.
The gift of an idealist.
The Gods remember always. We forget.
The heart has room for gladness.
The houseless wind has gone to rest.
The knell that dooms the voiceless and obscure.
The lilacs blossom at the door.
The lordly pines like grasses wave.
The love that has no memories and no hope.
Their fathers wronged thee, Master, long ago.
The might of music, and its mystic fire.
The new-born leaves unfolding fast.
The night-wind drives across the leaden skies.
The oriole sang in the apple tree.
The peace we longed to keep.
The perfect eloquence of silence; then.
The robin chants when the thrush is dumb.
The seedling bidden in the sod.
The serpent-horror writhing in her hair.
The Ship of the Spring in the offing at last!
The sights and sounds of the wretched street.
"The smile," they called her,—"La Sourire"; and fair.
The summer-time is in the rose.
The tomb said to the rose.
The vast cathedral-crown of the high hill.
The voices of all waters that make moan.
The wild bird's first exultant strain.
The words of love I never said to thee.
The world denies her prophets with rash breath.
The world in mourning for a Russian Tsar!
The world is full of charm, ma belle.
The world is poorer, Italy's fair child.
Then Love, reproachful, sighed: Art thou become.
There is a legend somewhere told.
There is a power in innocence, a might.
There is always room for beauty: memory.
There's a spot in the mountains, where the dew, dear.
These sounds sonorous rolling!
They are at rest.
They live so long, the Gods!
They tell you Lincoln was ungainly, plain?
They that read my message clear.
They told me: Pan is dead—Nature is dead.
Think not of love as of a debt.
This is the love-song we today are singing.
Thou art more ancient than the oldest skies.
Thou lonely, dew-wet mountain road.
Thou that dost save through pain.
Thou, thou hast seen the child I seek.
Though full of care.
Though hence I go—though with the fading day.
Though thou hast climbed, by patient effort slow.
Through the long voyage we may welcome day.
Through the rushes by the river.
Through the window Love looked in.
Thy children are inspired by thee.
Thy hand I press. (from Part II: Love and Life)
Thy heart and mine are one, my dear.
Time, like to sand from out the glass, unceasing flows away.
To drift with thee, not strive against thy tide.
To him who doth remember.
To him who found me sleeping, all my soul.
To see thee, hear thee, wistful watch I keep.
To welcome her the Mother wakes.
Towering above the plain, proud in decay.
True love is not a conquest won.
Two angels stood at Eden's gate.
Two rocked his infant cradle as he slept.

Under our own flag, still we will sail her.
Untimely blossom! poor, impatient thing.
Unto the Prison House of Pain none willingly repair.
Unto the woodland spring he came.
Up, lads, they say we've struck a berg, though there's no danger yet.

Viceroy they made him, Admiral and Don.

Wan-visaged Azrael, in a darkened room.
Wanderer from a fading strand.
War has its field of blood—heart-breaking War.
Was it worth while to paint so fair.
We are not twain, but one: through seas divide us.
We celebrate with pomp and pride.
We have been sleeping—dreaming. Now.
We have hung out the flags that we love best.
"We ne'er will part!" Ah me, what plaintive sounds.
We trekked our way to the desert.
We who have seen the seed fall without sound.
Weary and long the winding way.
What frolic zephyr through the young leaves plays.
What high adventure, in what world afar.
What miracle is here.
What thought can measure Time?.
When beeches bud and lilacs blow.
When I come to my Father's house he will hear me.
When I hear men discoursing idle things.
When Nature takes away the things we prize.
When Spring comes tripping o'er the lea.
When the heroic deeds that mark our time.
When the wolds of Lycæus are silvery fair.
When they are dead, we heap the laurels high.
When through thy arching aisles.
When to the undesired home.
When to thee, Trojan—firebrand of the night.
When Winter's sovereignty complete.
When wintry wells are water-filled.
When, with a mortal mother's helpless tears.
Where Harold sleeps the night is blest.
Where hast thou gone, my Day?
Where shall we lay you down to rest?
Who is this in raiment white.
Who knocks at the door so late, so late.
Who walks the world with soul awake.
Why does great beauty waken in the soul.
Why hast Thou bound my feet.
With kind and cruel ministries.
With pomp attendant, and in garlands drest.
Would Jesus come to me, Mither.
Would you feel the witching spell.
Wouldst thou learn what coldness is.

You have outstripped me in the race.
You say I'm dying! It is so, I think.
You were not of one country. To one Race.


  1. This poem uses the same first stanza as the following one, but the remaining stanzas differ.