← The Complete Poetic and Dramatic Works of Robert Browning / Cambridge Edition, Volume 2

Index of First Lines of Poems

About that strangest, saddest, sweetest song, 602.
A certain neighbor lying sick to death, 932.
Ah, but—because you were struck blind, could bless, 970.
Ah, but how each loved each, Marquis! 914.
Ah, did you once see Shelley plain, 195.
Ah, George Bubb Dodington Lord Melcombe,—no, 961.
Ah, Love, but a day, 373.
Ah, the bird-like fluting, 999.
A king lived long ago, 140.
All I believed is true, 255.
All I can say is—I saw it! 811.
All June I bound the rose in sheaves, 190.
All service ranks the same with God, 145.
All's over then: does truth sound bitter, 170.
All that I know, 185.
All the breath and the bloom of the year in the bag of one bee, 988.
Among these latter busts we count by scores, 283.
And so, here happily we meet, fair friend, 736.
And so you found that poor room dull, 814.
"And what might that bold man's announcement be," 933.
Anyhow, once full Dervish, youngsters came, 930.
A Rabbi told me: On the day allowed, 906.
A simple ring with a single stone, 988.
As I ride, as I ride, 165.
Ask not one least word of praise! 941.
"As like as a Hand to another Hand!" 375.
At the midnight in the silence of the sleep-time, 1007.
"Ay, but, Ferishtah,"—a disciple smirked, 939.
Ay, this same midnight, by this chair of mine, 952.
Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead! 171.
Boot, saddle, to horse, and away! 163.
But do not let us quarrel any more, 346.
But give them me, the mouth, the eyes, the brow! 395.
Christ God, who savest man, save most, 252.
Cleon the poet, from the sprinkled isles, 358.
Come close to me, dear friends; still closer: thus! 12.
Crescenzio, the Pope's Legate at the High Council, Trent, 991.
Dared and done: at last I stand upon the summit, Dear and True! 849.
Dear and great Angel, would'st thou only leave, 194.
Dear, had the world in its caprice, 191.
Dervish—though yet un-dervished, call him so, 929.
Don, the divinest women that have walked, 955.
"Enter my palace," if a prince should say, 947.
Escape me? 191.
Eyes, calm beside thee (Lady, couldst thou know!) 11.
"Fame!" Yes, I said it and you read it. First, 859.
Fear death?—to feel the fog in my throat, 395.
Fee, faw, fum! bubble and squeak! 281.
Fire is in the flint: true, once a spark escapes, 934.
First I salute this soil of the blessed, river and rock, 877.
Flame at my footfall, Parnassus! Apollo, 948.
Flower—I never fancied, jewel—I profess you! 812.
Flower o' the broom, 342.
Fortù, Fortù, my beloved one, 260.
Frowned the Laird on the Lord: So, red-handed I catch thee? 993.
Give her but a least excuse to love me, 137.
Going his rounds one day in Ispahan, 920.
Goldoni—good, gay, sunniest of souls, 910.
Good, to forgive, 849.
Grand rough old Martin Luther, 266.
Grow old along with me! 383.
Gr-r-r—there go, my heart's abhorrence! 167.
Had I but plenty of money, money enough and to spare, 174.
Hamelin Town's in Brunswick, 268.
Heap cassia, sandal-buds and stripes, 36.
"Heigho," yawned one day King Francis, 256.
Here is a story, shall stir you! Stand up, Greeks dead and gone, 892.
Here is a thing that happened. Like wild beasts whelped, for den, 879.
Here's my case. Of old I used to love him, 811.
Here's the garden she walked across, 166.
Here's to Nelson's memory! 166.
Here was I with my arm and heart, 380.
He was the man—Pope Sixtus, that Fifth, that swineherd's son, 992.
High in the dome, suspended, of Hell, sad triumph, behold us, 916.
Hist, but a word, fair and soft! 195.
How I lived, ere my human life began, 1004.
How of his fate, the Pilgrims' soldier-guide, 936.
How strange!—but, first of all, the little fact, 974.
How very hard it is to be, 327.
How well I know what I mean to do, 185.
I am a goddess of the ambrosial courts, 337.
I am a painter who cannot paint, 137.
I am indeed the personage you know, 817.
I am poor brother Lippo, by your leave! 342.
I and Clive were friends—and why not? 893.
I could have painted pictures like that youth's, 341.
I dream of a red-rose tree, 193.
If a stranger passed the tent of Hóseyn, he cried "A churl's!" 897.
If one could have that little head of hers, 396.
If you and I could change to beasts, what beast should either be? 989.
I hear a voice, perchance I heard, 22.
I know a Mount, the gracious Sun perceives, 361.
I know there shall dawn a day, 1005.
I leaned on the turf, 374.
I—"Next Poet?" No, my hearties, 807.
I only knew one poet in my life, 336.
I said—Then, dearest, since 'tis so, 267.
Is all our fire of shipwreck wood, 373.
I send my heart up to thee, all my heart, 262.
I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he, 164.
It happened thus: my slab, though new, 990.
It is a lie—their Priests, their Pope, 169.
It once might have been, once only, 396.
It seems as if ... or did the actual chance, 959.
It was roses, roses, all the way, 251.
I've a Friend, over the sea, 258.
I will be happy if but for once, 987.
I will be quiet and talk with you, 374.
I wish that when you died last May, 395.
I wonder do you feel to-day, 189.
John, Master of the Temple of God, 280.
June was not over, 190.
Just for a handful of silver he left us, 164.
Karshish, the picker-up of learning's crumbs, 338.
Kentish Sir Byng stood for his King, 163.
King Charles, and who'll do him right now? 163.
"Knowledge deposed, then!"—groaned whom that most grieved, 940.
Last night I saw you in my sleep, 989.
Let's contend no more, Love, 171.
Let them fight it out, friend! things have gone too far, 193.
Let the watching lids wink! 130.
Let us begin and carry up this corpse, 279.
"Look, I strew beans," 942.
Man I am and man would be, Love—merest man and nothing more, 933.
May I print, Shelley, how it came to pass, 821.
Morning, evening, noon and night, 253.
Moses the Meek was thirty cubits high, 927.
My father was a scholar and knew Greek, 1002.
My first thought was, he lied in every word, 287.
My grandfather says he remembers he saw, when a youngster long ago, 875,
My heart sank with our Claret-flask, 166.
My love, this is the bitterest, that thou, 187.
Nay but you, who do not love her, 170.
Nay, _that_, Furini, never I at least, 964.
Never any more, 192.
Never the time and the place, 928.
Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the Northwest died away, 179.
"No, boy, we must not"—so began, 823.
No, for I'll save it! Seven years since, 412.
No more wine? then we'll push back chairs, and talk, 349.
No protesting, dearest! 814.
Not with my Soul, Love!—bid no soul like mine, 940.
Now, don't, sir! Don't expose me! Just this once! 397.
Now that I, tying thy glass mask tightly, 168.
O bell' andare, 70.
Of the million or two, more or less, 254.
Oh, but is it not hard, Dear? 916.
Oh Galuppi, Baldassare, this is very sad to find! 175.
Oh, good gigantic smile o' the brown old earth, 375.
Oh Love! Love, thou that from the eyes diffusest, 874.
Oh, Love—no, Love! All the noise below, Love, 946.
Oh, the beautiful girl, too white, 577.
Oh, to be in England, 179.
Oh, what a dawn of day! 172.
Oh worthy of belief I hold it was, 909.
Once I saw a chemist take a pinch of powder, 938.
One day, it thundered and lightened, 916.
Only the prism's obstruction shows aright, 395.
On the first of the Feast of Feasts, 413.
On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two, 815.
O the old wall here! How I could pass, 802.
Others may need _new_ life in Heaven, 988.
O trip and skip, Elvire! Link arm in arm with me! 702.
Out of the little chapel I burst, 318.
Out of your whole life give but a moment! 988.
Overhead the treetops meet, 144.
Over the ball of it, 810.
Over the sea our galleys went, 38.
Past we glide, and past, and past! 262.
Pauline, mine own, bend o'er me—thy soft breast, 2.
_Petrus Aponensis_—there was a magician! 899.
Plague take all your pedants, say I! 167.
Pray, Reader, have you eaten ortolans, 929.
Query: was ever a quainter, 802.
Quoth an inquirer, Praise the Merciful! 934.
Quoth one: Sir, solve a scruple! No true sage, 937.
Room after room, 191.
Round the cape of a sudden came the sea, 170.
Round us the wild creatures, overhead the trees, 930.
Said Abner, "At last thou art come! Ere I tell, ere thou speak, 179.
Savage I was sitting in my house, late, lone, 735.
See, as the prettiest graves will do in time, 170.
Shakespeare!—to such name's sounding, what succeeds, 947.
Shall I sonnet-sing you about myself? 808.
She should never have looked at me, 169.
Sighed Rawdon Brown: Yes, I'm departing, Toni! 947.
Sing me a hero! Quench my thirst, 887.
So far as our story approaches the end, 267.
So, friend, your shop was all your house! 809.
So, I shall see her in three days, 192.
Solomon King of the Jews and the Queen of Sheba, Balkis, 913.
Some people hang portraits up, 396.
"So say the foolish!" Say the foolish so, Love? 988.
So, the head aches and the limbs are faint! 936.
So, the three Court-ladies began, 991.
So, the year's done with! 170.
Stand still, true poet that you are! 195.
Still ailing, Wind? Wilt be appeased or no? 374.
Still you stand, still you listen, still you smile! 812.
Stop, let me have the truth of that! 379.
Stop playing, poet! May a brother speak? 335.
Stop rowing! This one of our bye-canals, 994.
Such a starved bank of moss, 859.
Supposed of Pamphylax the Antiochene, 385.
Suppose that we part (work done, comes play), 928.
Take the cloak from his face, and at first, 194.
That fawn-skin-dappled hair of hers, 190.
That oblong book's the Album; hand it here! 773.
That second time they hunted me, 258.
That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, 252.
That was I, you heard last night, 189.
The bee with his comb, 144.
The blind man to the maiden said, 910.
The fancy I had to-day, 701.
The gods I ask deliverance from these labors, 831.
The gray sea and the long black land, 170.
The Lord, we look to once for all, 280.
The morn when first it thunders in March, 176.
The moth's kiss, first! 262.
The Poet's age is sad: for why? 987.
"The poets pour us wine—" 827.
The rain set early in to-night, 286.
There is nothing to remember in me, 376.
There's a palace in Florence, the world knows well, 283.
There's a woman like a dew-drop, she's so purer than the purest, 220.
There's heaven above, and night by night, 341.
There they are, my fifty men and women, 361.
The swallow has set her six young on the rail, 373.
The year's at the spring, 133.
"They tell me, your carpenters," quoth I to my friend the Russ, 880.
This is a spray the Bird clung to, 189.
This now, this other story makes amends, 918.
This strange thing happened to a painter once, 996.
This was my dream; I saw a Forest, 990.
Thou, whom these eyes saw never! Say friends true, 948.
Thus I wrote in London, musing on my betters, 910.
Touch him ne'er so lightly, into song he broke, 910.
'T was Bedford Special Assize, one daft Midsummer's Day, 887.
Up jumped Tokay on our table, 166.
Up, up, up—next step of the staircase, 979.
Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity! 348.
Verse-making was least of my virtues: I viewed with despair, 939.
Wanting is—what? 911.
We two stood simply friend-like side by side, 991.
We were two lovers; let me lie by her, 812.
What are we two? 263.
What girl but, having gathered flowers, 988.
What, he on whom our voices unanimously ran, 992.
What, I disturb thee at thy morning meal, 938.
What is he buzzing in my ears? 394.
What it was struck the terror into me? 1001.
What's become of Waring, 264.
When I vexed, you and you chid me, 937.
Where the quiet-colored end of evening smiles, 171.
Who hears of Helen's Tower, may dream perchance, 601.
Who will, may hear Sordello's story told, 75.
"Why?" Because all I haply can and do, 948.
Why from the world, Ferishtah smiled, should thanks, 946.
Will sprawl, now that the heat of day is best, 392.
Will you hear my story also, 911.
Wind, wave, and bark, bear Euthukles and me, 628.
Wish no word unspoken, want no look away, 930.
Woe, he went galloping into the war, 987.
Would a man 'scape the rod? 372.
Would it were I had been false, not you! 378.
Would that the structure Wave, the manifold music I build, 382.
Yet womanhood you reverence, 993.
"You are sick, that's sure,"—they say, 892.
You blame me that I ran away? 993.
You groped your way across my room i' the drear dark dead of night, 932.
You have seen better days, dear? So have I, 682.
You in the flesh and here, 989.
You know, we French stormed Ratisbon, 251.
You'll love me yet!—and I can tarry, 142.
You're my friend, 271.
Your ghost will walk, you lover of trees, 178.