Index to First Lines
Table of contents
A certain poet in outlandish clothes
A crazy man that found a cup
A cursing rogue with a merry face
A doll in the doll-maker’s house
A living man is blind and drinks his drop
A man came slowly from the setting sun
A mermaid found a swimming lad
A pity beyond all telling
A speckled cat and a tame hare
A storm-beaten old watch-tower
A strange thing surely that my Heart, when love had come unsought
A sudden blow; the great wings beating still
Acquaintance; companion
Ah, that Time could touch a form
All the heavy days are over
All things can tempt me from this craft of verse
All things uncomely and broken, all things worn out and old
Although crowds gathered once if she but showed her face
Although I can see him still
‘Although I’d lie lapped up in linen
Although I shelter from the rain
Although you hide in the ebb and flow
An affable Irregular
An ancient bridge, and a more ancient tower
An old man cocked his ear upon a bridge
And thus declared that Arab lady
As I came over Windy Gap
Autumn is over the long leaves that love us
Bald heads forgetful of their sins
Be you still, be you still, trembling heart
Because to-day is some religious festival
Behold that great Plotinus swim
Being out of heart with government
Beloved, gaze in thine own heartpi
Beloved, may your sleep be sound
Between extremities
Bid a strong ghost stand at the head
Blessed be this place
Bolt and bar the shutter
Bring me to the blasted oak
Bring where our Beauty lies
‘Call down the hawk from the air
Come, let me sing into your ear
Come play with me
Come praise Colonus’ horses, and come praise
Come round me, little childer
Crazed through much child-bearing
Cumhal called out, bending his head
Dance there upon the shore
Dear Craoibhin Aoibhin, look into our case
Dear fellow-artist, why so free
Dear, I must be gone
Do not because this day I have grown saturnine
Do you not hear me calling, white deer with no horns?
Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet
Dry timber under that rich foliage
Earth in beauty dressed
Edain came out of Midhir’s hill, and lay
Endure what life God gives and ask no longer span
Far-off, most secret, and inviolate Rose
Fasten your hair with a golden pin
Five-and-twenty years have gone
Fled foam underneath us, and round us, a wandering and milky smoke
For certain minutes at the least
For one throb of the artery
God grant a blessing on this tower and cottage
Good Father John O’Hart
Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths
Half close your eyelids, loosen your hair
Hands, do what you’re bid
Has he not led us into these waste seas
Has no one said those daring
Having inherited a vigorous mind
He stood among a crowd at Drumahair
Hidden by old age awhile
Hope that you may understand!
How should the world be luckier if this house
Hurry to bless the hands that play
I admit the briar
‘I am of Ireland
I am worn out with dreams
I asked if I should pray
I bade, because the wick and oil are spent
I bring you with reverent hands
I care not what the sailors say
I climb to the tower-top and lean upon broken stone
I cried when the moon was murmuring to the birds
I did the dragon’s will until you came
I dreamed, as in my bed I lay
I dreamed that I stood in a valley, and amid sighs
I dreamed that one had died in a strange place
I found that ivory image there
I had this thought a while ago
I hardly hear the curlew cry
I have drunk ale from the Country of the Young
I have heard the pigeons of the Seven Woods
I have met them at close of day
I have old women’s secrets now
I have no happiness in dreaming of Brycelinde
I have pointed out the yelling pack
I hear the Shadowy Horses, their long manes a-shake
I heard the old, old men say
I know, although when looks meet
I know that I shall meet my fate
I made my song a coat
I meditate upon a swallow’s flight
I met the Bishop on the road
I passed along the water’s edge below the humid trees
I, proclaiming that there is
I ranted to the knave and fool
I rise in the dawn, and I kneel and blow
I sat on cushioned otter-skin
I saw a staring virgin stand
I summon to the winding ancient stair
I swayed upon the gaudy stern
I, the poet William Yeats
I think it better that in times like these
I thought no more was needed
I thought of your beauty, and this arrow
I walk through the long schoolroom questioning
I walked among the seven woods of Coole
I wander by the edge
I went out alone
I went out to the hazel wood
I whispered, ‘I am too young’
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree
I would be ignorant as the dawn
I would that we were, my beloved, white birds on the foam of the sea
If any man drew near
If I make the lashes dark
If Michael, leader of God’s host
If this importunate heart trouble your peace
If you have revisited the town, thin Shade
If you, that have grown old, were the first dead
In tombs of gold and lapis lazuli
Indignant at the fumbling wits, the obscure spite
King Eochaid came at sundown to a wood
Know, that I would accounted be
Kusta ben Luka is my name, I write
Laughter not time destroyed my voice
‘Lay me in a cushioned chair
Like the moon her kindness is
Locke sank into a swoon
‘Love is all
Many ingenious lovely things are gone
May God be praised for woman
Midnight has come, and the great Christ Church Bell
Much did I rage when young
My dear, my dear, I know
My great-grandfather spoke to Edmund Burke
My mother dandled me and sang
Never give all the heart, for love
‘Never shall a young man
Never until this night have I been stirred
Nor dread nor hope attend
Now all the truth is out
Now as at all times I can see in the mind’s eye
Now, man of croziers, shadows called our names
Now must I these three praise
Now that we’re almost settled in our house
O bid me mount and sail up there
O but there is wisdom
O but we talked at large before
O cloud-pale eyelids, dream-dimmed eyes
‘O cruel death, give three things back’
O curlew, cry no more in the air
O heart, be at peace, because
O hurry where by water among the trees
O sweet everlasting Voices, be still
O thought, fly to her when the end of day
O what to me the little room
O women, kneeling by your altar-rails long hence
‘O words are lightly spoken’
O’Driscoll drove with a song
Old fathers, great-grandfathers
On Cruachan’s plain slept he
On the grey rock of Cashel the mind’s eye
On the grey sand beside the shallow stream
Once more the storm is howling, and half hid
Once, when midnight smote the air
One had a lovely face
One that is ever kind said yesterday
Opinion is not worth a rush
Others because you did not keep
Out-worn heart, in a time out-worn
Overcome—O bitter sweetness
Pale brows, still hands and dim hair
Pardon, great enemy
Pardon, old fathers, if you still remain
Poets with whom I learned my trade
Pour wine and dance if manhood still have pride
‘Put off that mask of burning gold
Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days!
Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World!
Sang old Tom the lunatic
Sang Solomon to Sheba
Send peace on all the lands and flickering corn
Shakespearean fish swam the sea, far away from land
She has not grown uncivil
She hears me strike the board and say
She is foremost of those that I would hear praised
She is playing like a child
She lived in storm and strife
She might, so noble from head
She that but little patience knew
‘She will change,’ I cried
Shy one, shy one
Sickness brought me this
Some may have blamed you that you took away
Speech after long silence; it is right
Stand up and lift your hand and bless
Suddenly I saw the cold and rook-delighting heaven
Surely among a rich man’s flowering lawns
Sweetheart, do not love too long
Swift has sailed into his rest
That cry’s from the first cuckoo of the year
That is no country for old men
That lover of a night
The angels are stooping
The bees build in the crevices
The brawling of a sparrow in the eaves
The cat went here and there
The Danaan children laugh, in cradles of wrought gold
The dews drop slowly and dreams gather: unknown spears
The fascination of what’s difficult
The Heavenly Circuit; Berenice’s Hair
The heron-billed pale cattle-birds
The host is riding from Knocknarea
The intellect of man is forced to choose
The island dreams under the dawn
The jester walked in the garden
The light of evening, Lissadell
The lot of love is chosen. I learnt that much
The moments passed as at a play
The old brown thorn-trees break in two high over Cummen Strand
The old priest Peter Gilligan
The Powers whose name and shape no living creature knows
The threefold terror of love; a fallen flare
The trees are in their autumn beauty
The true faith discovered was
The unpurged images of day recede
The woods of Arcady are dead
There is a queen in China, or maybe it’s in Spain
There is grey in your hair
There’s many a strong farmer
There was a green branch hung with many a bell
There was a man whom Sorrow named his friend
There where the course is
These are the clouds about the fallen sun
They hold their public meetings where
They must to keep their certainty accuse
Things out of perfection sail
This great purple butterfly
This night has been so strange that it seemed
This whole day have I followed in the rocks
‘Those Platonists are a curse,’ he said
Though leaves are many, the root is one
‘Though logic-choppers rule the town
Though nurtured like the sailing moon
Though the great song return no more
‘Though to my feathers in the wet
Though you are in your shining days
Three old hermits took the air
Through intricate motions ran
Through winter-time we call on spring
Time drops in decay
‘Time to put off the world and go somewhere
Toil and grow rich
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
Two heavy trestles, and a board
Under my window-ledge the waters race
Undying love to buy
Was it the double of my dream
We have cried in our despair
We sat together at one summer’s end
We sat under an old thorn-tree
We should be hidden from their eyes
We that have done and thought
We who are old, old and gay
Were you but lying cold and dead
‘What do you make so fair and bright?’
‘What have I earned for all that work,’ I said
What lively lad most pleasured me
What need you, being come to sense
What’s riches to him
What shall I do with this absurdity
What they undertook to do
When all works that have
When have I last looked on
When her soul flies to the predestined dancing-place
When I play on my fiddle in Dooney
When my arms wrap you round I press
When the flaming lute-thronged angelic door is wide
When you are old and grey and full of sleep
Where dips the rocky highland
Where got I that truth?
Where had her sweetness gone?
Where has Maid Quiet gone to
Where, where but here have Pride and Truth
While I, from that reed-throated whisperer
While I wrought out these fitful Danaan rhymes
Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream?
Who talks of Plato’s spindle
Who will go drive with Fergus now
Wine comes in at the mouth
With the old kindness, the old distinguished grace
Would I could cast a sail on the water
‘Would it were anything but merely voice!’
Why should I blame her that she filled my days
You gave, but will not give again
You say, as I have often given tongue
You waves, though you dance by my feet like children at play
You who are bent, and bald, and blind
‘Your eyes that once were never weary of mine
Your hooves have stamped at the black margin of the wood

  By PanEris using Melati.

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