Author:Samuel Taylor Coleridge/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 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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 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

Julia was blest with beauty, wit, and grace

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

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!

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, ! 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 ! thy soft cheek reclin'd (Effusion XXXV) My pensive Sara! thy soft cheek reclined (The Eolian Harp) Myrtle-leaf that, ill besped

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, ! 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 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 ! 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

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

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

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

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 ! thy melodies steal o'er mine ear Spirit who sweepest the wild harp of Time! Splendour's softly fostered child! ! 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!

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

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

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

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

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?