Author:Samuel Taylor Coleridge/Index of First Lines

Index of First Lines

This listing largely follows that given in Samuel Taylor Coleridge: The Complete Poems (1997), edited by William Keach (Penguin Classics). There are some instances where works are not included in Keach. These are marked with **.

A

A bird, who for his other sins
A blessèd lot hath he, who having passed
A green and silent spot, amid the hills
A lovely form there sate before my bed
A low dead Thunder muttered thro' the Night
A mount, not wearisome and bare and steep
A sunny shaft did I behold
A sworded man whose trade is blood
Ah! cease thy tears and sobs, my little Life
Ah! not by Cam, or Isis, famous streams
All are not born to soar - and ah! how few
All look and likeness caught from earth
All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair
All thoughts, all passions, all delights
Almost awake? Why, what is this, and whence
An Ox, long fed with musty hay **
And in Life's noisiest hour
And this place our forefathers made for man!
And this reft house is that, the which he built
Are there two things, of all which men possess
As I am rhymer
As late each flower that sweetest blows
As late I journied o'er the extensive plain
As late I lay in slumber's shadowy vale
As late in wreaths gay flowers I bound
As late on Skiddaw's mount I lay supine
As oft mine eye with careless glance
As some vast tropic Tree, itself a Wood
As the shy Hind, the soft-eyed gentle Brute
As when a child on some long winter's night
As when far off the warbled strains are heard
As when the new or full moon urges
At midnight by the stream I roved
Auspicious Reverence! Hush all meaner song
Away, those cloudy looks, that labouring sigh

B

Be proud, as Spaniards! and Leap for Pride, ye Fleas
'Be, rather than be called, a Child of God'
Beneath the blaze of a tropical sun the mountain peaks
Beneath this stone does William Hazlitt lie
Beneath yon birch with silver bark
Bright clouds of reverence sufferably bright
Britons! when last ye met, with distant streak

C

Charles! my slow heart was only sad, when first
Child of my muse! in Barbour's gentle hand
Come, come, thou bleak December Wind
'Come hither, gently rowing'
Cupid, if storying Legends tell aright

D

Dear Charles! whilst yet thou wert a babe, I ween
Dear native brook! wild streamlet of the West!
Dear tho' unseen! tho' I have left behind
Deep in the gulph of Vice and Woe
Depart in joy from this world's noise and strife
Dim Hour! that sleep'st on pillowing clouds afar
Do you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the dove
Dormi, Jesu! Mater ridet

E

Earth! thou mother of numberless children, the nurse and the mother
Edmund! thy grave with aching eye I scan
Encinctured with a twine of leaves
Ere on my bed my limbs I lay (A Child's Evening Prayer)
Ere on my bed my limbs I lay (The Pains of Sleep)
Ere Sin could blight or Sorrow fade
Ere the birth of my life, if I wished it or no

F

Farewell, sweet Love! yet blame you not my truth
Farewell parental scenes! a sad farewell
Fear no more, thou timid flower!
'Fie, Mr Coleridge! -and can this be you?'
Frail creatures are we all! To be the best
Friend, Lover, Husband, Sister, Brother!
Friend of the wise! and teacher of the good!
From his brimstone bed at break of day

G

Gently I took that which ungently came
Γνῶθι σεαυτόν - and is this the prime
God be with thee, gladsome Ocean!
God is our Strength and our Refuge: therefore will we not tremble
God's child in Christ adopted, - Christ my all

H

Hail! festal Easter, that dost bring
Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star
He too has flitted from his secret nest
Hear, my beloved, an old Milesian story!
Hear, sweet Spirit, hear the spell
Heard'st thou yon universal cry
Hence, soul-dissolving Harmony
Hence that fantastic wantonness of woe
Hence! thou fiend of gloomy sway
Her attachment may differ from yours in degree
His own fair countenance, his kingly forehead
How long will ye round me be swelling
'How seldom, friend! a good great man inherits'
How warm this woodland wild Recess!
Hush! ye clamorous Cares! be mute!

I

I asked my fair one happy day
I have experienc'd
I have heard of reasons manifold
I heard a voice from Etna's side
I know it is dark; and though I have lain
I know 'tis but a Dream, yet feel more anguish
I love, and he loves me again **
I never saw the man whom you describe
I note the moods and feelings men betray
I sigh, fair injur'd Stranger! for thy fate
I stand alone, nor tho' my Heart should break
I stood on Brocken's sovran height, and saw
I too a sister had! too cruel Death!
If dead, we cease to be; if total gloom
If I had but two little wings
If Love be dead
If thou wert here, these tears were tears of light!
If, while my passion I impart
In Köhln, a town of monks and bones
In many ways does the full heart reveal
In the hexameter rises the fountain's silvery column
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
It is an ancient Mariner
It is an ancyent Marinere
it may indeed be phantasy, when I
It was some Spirit, Sheridan! that breath'd
Its balmy lips the infant blest

J

Julia was blest with beauty, wit, and grace

K

Kayser! to whom, as to a second self
Knows't thou the Land where the pale Citrons blow

L

Lady, to Death we're doomed, our crime the same!
Let Eagle bid the Tortois sunward soar
Let klumps of Earth however glorified
Let those whose low delights to Earth are given
Life wakeful over all knew no gradation
Like a lone Arab, old and blind
Lovely gems of radiance meek
Low was our pretty Cot: our tallest rose
Lo! thro' the dusky silence of the groves
Lunatic Witch-fires! Ghosts of Light and Motion!

M

Maid of my Love, sweet Genevieve!
Maid of unboastful charms! whom white-robed Truth
Maiden, that with sullen brow
Mark this holy chapel well!
Matilda! I have heard asweet tune played
Methinks, how dainty sweet it were, reclin'd
Mild Splendour of the various-vested Night!
Mourn, Israel! Sons of Israel, mourn!
Much on my early youth I love to dwell
My eyes make pictures, when they are shut
My heart has thank'd thee, Bowles! for those soft strains
My Lord! though your Lordship repel deviation
My Maker! of thy power the trace
My Merry men all, that drink with glee
My pensive Sara! thy soft cheek reclin'd (Effusion XXXV)
My pensive Sara! thy soft cheek reclined (The Eolian Harp)
Myrtle-leaf that, ill besped

N

Near the lone pile with ivy overspread
Never, believe me
No cloud, no relique of the sunken day
No doleful faces here, no sighing
No more my Visionary Soul shall dwell
No more 'twixt conscience staggering and the Pope
Nor cold, nor stern, my soul! yet I detest
Nor travels my meandering eye
Not, Stanhope! with the Patriot's doubtful name
Not always should the Tear's ambrosial dew
Now as Heaven is my Lot, they're the Pests of the Nation!
Now prompts the Muse poetic lays

O

O Beauty, in a beauteous Body dight!
'O! Christmas Day, Oh! happy day!'
O Death, leaving the gates of darkness, come
O fair is Love's first hope to gentle mind!
O form'd t'illume a sunless world forlorn
O! it is pleasant, with a heart at ease
O meek attendant of Sol's setting blaze
O mercy, O me miserable man!
O muse who sangest late another's pain
O Peace, that on a lilied bank dost love
O! Superstition is the Giant Shadow
O th' oppressive, irksome weight
O thou wild Fancy, check thy wing! No more
O what a loud and fearful shriek was there
O what a wonder seems the fear of death
O'er wayward childhood would'st thou hold firm rule
O'erhung with yew, midway the Muses mount
Of late, in one of those most weary hours
Of one scrap of science I've evidence ocular
Oft o'er my brain does that strange fancy roll
Oft, oft methinks the while with Thee
Oh! I could laugh to hear the midnight wind
Oh I do love thee, meek Simplicity!
Oh! might my ill-passed hours return again!
On a given finite line
On stern Blencartha's perilous height
On the wIde level of a mountain's head
On wide or narrow scale shall Man
Once could the Morn's first beams, the healthful breeze
Once more, sweet Stream! with slow foot wandering near
One kiss, dear maid! I said and sigh'd
Oppress'd, contused, with grief and pain

P

Pains ventral, subventral
Pale Roamer through the night! thou poor Forlorn!
Parry seeks the polar ridge
Pensive at eve, on the hard world I mused
Poor little Foal of an oppressèd Race!
Promptress of unnumber'd sighs

Q

Quae linguam, aut nihil, aut nihili, aut vix sunt mea. Sordes
Quoth Dick to me, as once at College

R

Resembles life what once was deem'd of light
Richer than Miser o'er his countless hoards

S

Sad lot, to have no hope! Though lowly kneeling
Schiller! that hour I would have wish'd to die
Seaward, white-gleaming thro' the busy Scud
Seraphs! around th' Eternal's seat who throng
She gave me with joy her virgin breast
Since all that beat about in Nature's range
Sister of love-lorn Poets, Philomel!
Sister! sisters! who sent you here?
Sly Beelzebub took all occasions
Sole Maid, associate sole, to me beyond
Sole Positive of Night!
Some are home-sick-some two or three
Southey! thy melodies steal o'er mine ear
Spirit who sweepest the wild harp of Time!
Splendour's softly fostered child!
Stanhope! I hail, with ardent Hymn, thy name!
Stop, Christian Passer-by! - Stop, child of God
Stranger! whose eyes a look of pity shew
Stretched on a mouldered Abbey's broadest wall
Strongly it bears us along in swelling and limitless billows
Such love as mourning Husbands have
Swans sing before they die: 'twere no bad thing
Sweet Flower! that peeping from thy russet stem
Sweet Mercy! how my very heart has bled
Sweet Muse! companion of my every hour!

T

Tell me, on what holy ground
That darling of the Tragic Muse
That Jealousy may rule a mind
The body
The butterfly the ancient Grecians made
The Devil believes that the Lord will come
The dubious light sad glimmers o'er the sky
The Dust flies smothering, as on clatt'ring Wheels
The early Year's fast-flying Vapours stray
The fervid Sun had more than halv'd the day
The frost performs its secret ministry
The grapes upon the Vicar's wall
The indignant Bard compos'd this furious ode
The moon - how definite its orb!
The piteous sobs that choke the Virgin's breath
The poet in his lone yet genial hour
The shepherds went their hasty way
The silence of a City - How awful at midnight
The singing Kettle & the purring Cat
The solemn-breathing air is ended
The stream with languid murmur creeps
'The Sun is not yet risen'
The tear which mourn'd a brother's fate scarce dry
The tedded hay, the first fruits of the soil
Then sang Deborah
They shrink in, as Moles
This be the meed, that thy Song creates a thousandfold Echo!
This day among the faithful plac'd
This is the time, when most divine to hear
This Sycamore, oft musical with bees
Thou bleedest, my poor Heart! and thy distress
Thou gentle Look, that didst my soul beguile
Thou who in youthful vigour rich, and light
Tho' roused by that dark Vizir Riot rude
Tho' much averse, dear Jack, to flicker
Tho' no bold flights to thee belong
Tho' veiled in spires of myrtle wreath
Through weeds and thorns, and matted underwood
Thus far my scanty brain hath built the rhyme
'Tis a strange place, this Limbo! - not a Place
'Tis hard on Bagshot Heath to try
'Tis not the lily-brow I prize
'Tis sweet to him, who all the week
'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock
'Tis true, Idoloclastes Satyrane!
To know, to esteem, to love - and then to part (On Taking Leave of ———, 1817)
To know, to esteem, to love,- and then to part (To two Sisters)
To praise men as good, and to take them for such
To tempt the dangerous deep, too venturous youth
Tranquillity! thou better name
Tröchêe trīps fröm löng tö shört
'Twas my last waking thought, how it could be
Two wedded Hearts, if e'er were such

U

Unboastful Bard! whose verse concise yet clear
Unchanged within to see all changed without
Underneath an old oak tree
Ungrateful he, who pluck'd thee from thy stalk
Unperishing youth!
Up, up! ye dames, and lasses gay!
Upon the mountain's Edge all lightly resting
Utter the song, O my soul! the flight and return of Mohammed

V

Verse, a breeze mid blossoms, straying
Verse, pictures, music, thoughts both grave and gay
Virtues and Woes alike too great for man

W

Was it some sweet device of faery land
Water and windmills, greenness, Islets green
We pledged our hearts, my love and I
Well! if the Bard was weatherwise, who made (A Letter to ———, April 4, 1802. - Sunday Evening)
Well! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made (Dejection: An Ode)
Well, they are gone, and here must I remain
What a spring-tide of Love to dear friends in a shoal!
What are the words?
What now thou dost or art about to do
What pleasures shall he ever find?
What though the chilly wide-mouth'd quacking chorus
When British Freedom for a happier land
When Hope but made Tranquillity be felt
When they did greet me Father, sudden Awe
When thou to my true-love com'st
When Youth his faery reign began
Whene'er the mist, that stands 'twixt God and thee
Where deep in mud Cam rolls his slumbrous stream
Where grac'd with many a classic spoil
Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn
Where true Love burns Desire is Love's pure flame
Where'er I find the Good, the True, the Fair
While my young cheek retains its healthful hues
Whilst pale Anxiety, corrosive Care
Whom the untaught Shepherds call
Why need I say, Louisa dear!
William, my teacher, my friend! dear William and dear Dorothea!
With Donne, whose muse on dromedary trots
With many a pause and oft reverted eye
Within these circling Hollies Woodbine-clad
Within these wilds was Anna wont to rove

Y

Ye Clouds! that far above me float and pause
Ye Gales, that of the Lark's repose
Ye souls unus'd to lofty verse
Yes, noble old Warrior! this heart has beat high
You loved the daughter of Don Manrique? . . . Loved?