Index of First Lines

A moment's quiet reflection
A thousand answers, each one wrong
A winter day, a Pinter play,
"...And go make Orpheus your king -
And now I rest
And through the night they sang this song...
Another brick and all will be as black
As to orientation I've begun a new elite
Ban the pubs! close down the stills!
Bicycles everywhere
Decay for teeth that live on bread and cheese!
Devon valley partridge in a great green growth
Each grain of sand that passes through the glass
Explorers we, marooned beside the plunging waters' brink.
Falling branches
For after all, you must admit, the Arquebus is gone
For what we cannot do without
From trackless memories of song expands
Grass lay grow beneath your feet
I had not thought to see the sun
I have striven all my lives to find the Elixir of Tooth
I haven't seen my uncle now for forty thousand years,
I tied her by her pigtails
I'm teaching my brother to moo like a cat
I've got to fast for fourteen days
If I were a cube of sugar so fine
If we plant a rhizome, will it grow a tree of light?
In honesty I must confess that death is not for me.
Irregular verse for a bevy of wasps
Let blue and green go hand in hand
Many were they who bowed beneath her shades
Mediaeval moats are too wide for men of stone
My sheets are torn, my blankets gone, my bed's no more a home
My shirt is pure as christian shoes: and yet
No tree I saw within the forests shade
O, leave me not an omnibus
O Man! What deeds thou dost within thy prison bound
O Meredith, my soul is running out
Oh pull up your braces and pluck up your teeth
Relent, O clear one, gaze into my eyes,
She faltered in the field of corn a mile above the road
She lives in high places, he lives in low
Sir, I bear a rhyme excelling
So love is not the seat of lovers' dreams
Strings untuned and softer music
The by-election isn't half the governmental poise
The death of many men cannot be praised
The Devon Valley Parchment bore the brunt of her black pen
The lady of the mountaintops, red roses in her hair,
The Lutine forest now is felled, and corn grows in its place
The miniaturist plies his gleeful trade,
The Muse, alas, has left my mind a blank
The noble art of bloodshed is not lost,
The open frame
The penants of the rival cause which flutters in the dale
The ship aflame
The Ugly Flunk of Bareth
The untold tenets of a lesser man
The waves of apathy erode
There's crying in Coburn and Kashmir tonight
There's methods in my sanity; but not in my attire
Variety may be the spice of life
Vor dieses Tür ich stande nur
When I consider how my life is spent
When I consider how my life is spent,
When I consider how my life is spent
When I consider how my life was spent
When I consider how my life is spent
While I was recalling my youth by the sea
Why, tell me why, do the Welshmen all repent?
You never take my words how they are meant.