Page:Poems, Volume 2, Coates, 1916.djvu/292

276 The voices of all waters that make moan, II, 248. The wild bird's first exultant strain, II, 19. The words of love I never said to thee, I, 174. The world denies her prophets with rash breath, I, 243. The world in mourning for a Russian Tsar! I, 60. Then Love, reproachful, sighed: Art thou become, II, 163. There is a legend somewhere told, I, 56. There is a power in innocence, a might, II, 174. There is always room for beauty: memory, I, vii. There's a spot in the mountains, where the dew, dear, II, 72. These sounds sonorous rolling! II, 141. They are at rest, II, 61. They live so long, the Gods! II, 85. They tell you Lincoln was ungainly, plain? II, 31. They told me: Pan is dead—Nature is dead, II, 164. Think not of love as of a debt, II, 101. Thou art more ancient than the oldest skies, I, 208. Thou lonely, dew-wet mountain road, I, 213. Thou, thou hast seen the child I seek, II, 149. Though full of care, II, 130. Though hence I go—though with the fading day, II, 21. Though thou hast climbed, by patient effort slow, II, 234. Through the rushes by the river, I, 3. Through the window Love looked in, I, 207. Thy children are inspired by thee, I, 127. Thy hand I press, II, 51. Thy heart and mine are one, my dear, II, 137. Time, like to sand from out the glass, unceasing flows away, I, 223. To drift with thee, not strive against thy tide, II, 99. To him who doth remember, II, 154. To him who found me sleeping, all my soul, I, v. To see thee, hear thee, wistful watch I keep, I, 88. To welcome her the Mother wakes, I, 176. Towering above the plain, proud in decay, II, 237. True love is not a conquest won, I, 191. Two angels stood at Eden's gate, II, 126. Two rocked his infant cradle as he slept, I, 159.

ntimely blossom! poor, impatient thing, I, 22. Unto the Prison House of Pain none willingly repair, II, 25. Unto the woodland spring he came, II, 39.