INDEX OF FIRST LINES

 

Index of First Lines

The index that appeared in the print version of this title does not match the pages in your eBook. Please use the search function on your eReading device to search for terms of interest. For your reference, the terms that appear in the print index are listed below.

A flame of rushlight in the cell

A man on his own in a car

A mist that from the moor arose

Across the wet November night

“… and that you did with said intent procure

As I lay in the bath the air was filling with bells

At the end of a long-walled garden

At the end of our Cathedral

At the time of evening when cars run sweetly

Belbroughton Road is bonny, and pinky bursts the spray

Bells are booming down the bohreens

Beside those spires so spick and span

Between the swimming-pool and cricket-ground

Broad of Church and broad of mind

Business men with awkward hips

By the shot tower near the chimneys

Clash went the billiard balls in the Clerkenwell Social Saloon

Cocooned in Time, at this inhuman height

Come, friendly bombs, and fall on Slough

Come on! come on! This hillock hides the spire

Come walk with me, my love, to Neasden Lane

Cut down the timber! Bells, too many and strong

Dark of primaeval pine encircles me

Dear Mary, Yes, it will be bliss

Dr. Ramsden cannot read The Times obituary to-day

Early Electric! With what radiant hope

Early sun on Beaulieu water

Encase your legs in nylons

Eternal youth is in his eyes

Fetlar is waiting. At its little quay

File into yellow candle light, fair choristers of King’s

First there was putting hot-water bottles to it

Floruit, floret, floreat!

Forgive me if, just for a moment, I

From Bermondsey to Wandsworth

From Matlock Bath’s half-timbered station

From out the Queen’s Highcliffe for weeks at a stretch

From the geyser ventilators

Gaily into Ruislip Gardens

Go back in your mind to that Middlesex height

God save me from the Porkers

Golden haired and golden hearted

Green Shutters, shut your shutters! Windyridge

Green upon the flooded Avon shone the after-storm-wet-sky

Greyly tremendous the thunder

Hark, I hear the bells of Westgate

Harmonious hydrangeas were concealing

He sipped at a weak hock and seltzer

He who by peaceful inland water steers

Here among long-discarded cassocks

High dormers are rising

How did the Devil come? When first attack?

How emerald the chalky depths

How glad I am that I was bound apprentice

How long was the peril, how breathless the day

How nice to watch the buildings go

How straight it flew, how long it flew

Hundreds of birds in the air

I am a young executive. No cuffs than mine are cleaner

I could not speak for amazement at your beauty

I had forgotten Hertfordshire

I know so well this turfy mile

I like the way these old brick garden walls

I love your brown curls, black in the rain, my colleen

I made hay while the sun shone

I pass the cruet and I see the lake

I remember the dread with which I at a quarter past four

I sat only two tables off from the one I was sacked at

I saw him in the Café Royal

I see the urn against the yew

I see the winding water make

I sit in Claridge’s from twelve till two

I walked into the night-club in the morning

I wonder whether you would make

I’m afraid the fellows in Putney rather wish they had

In a house like that

In among the silver birches winding ways of tarmac wander

In early twilight I can hear

In the churchyard of Bromham the yews intertwine

In the Garden City Café with its murals on the wall

In the ivy dusty is the old lock rusty

In the licorice fields at Pontefract

In the perspective of Eternity

In the Public Gardens

In this high pasturage, this Blunden time

Infirmaries by Aston Webb

In uniform behold me stand

Intolerably sad, profound

Isn’t she lovely, ‘the Mistress’?

It is two hundred years since he got in his stride

It’s an easy game, this reviewin’—the editor sends yer a book

It’s awf’lly bad luck on Diana

It’s for Regency now I’m enthusing

Keep me from Thelma’s sister Pearl!

Kind o’er the kinderbank leans my Myfanwy

Kirkby with Muckby-cum-Sparrowby-cum-Spinx

Last week a friend inquired of me

Lavender Sweep is drowned in Wandsworth

Let me take this other glove off

“Let us not speak, for the love we bear one another—

Light six white tapers with the Flame of Art

Lonely in the Regent Palace

Low-shot light of a sharp December

Miles of pram in the wind and Pam in the gorse track

Miss J. Hunter Dunn, Miss J. Hunter Dunn

MURRAY, you bid my plastic pen

My head is bald, my breath is bad

My speculated avenues are wasted

My undergraduate eyes beholding

Near the celebrated Lido where the breeze is fresh and free

No doubt she is somebody’s mistress

No people on the golf-links, not a crack

Not so far from Evesham’s city on a woody hillside green

Now all the world she knew is dead

Now is the time when we recall

Now on this out of season afternoon

Now with the bells through the apple bloom

Now with the threat growing still greater within me

Oh, gay lapped the waves on the shores of Lough Ennel

Oh God the Olney Hymns abound

Oh, little body, do not die

Oh Lord Cozens Hardy

Oh when my love, my darling

Oh when the early morning at the seaside

Oh would I could subdue the flesh

O, I wad gang tae Harrogate

Old General Artichoke lay bloated on his bed

On a shining day of October we remembered you, Commander

On Mannin’s rough coast-line the twilight descending

On Paignton sands Hawaiian bands

On roaring iron down the Holloway Road

On such a morning as this

On winter evenings I walk alone in the City

One Saturday night I sat in The London

Our padre is an old sky pilot

Over what bridge-fours has that luscious sea

Pale green of the English Hymnal! Yattendon hymns

Phone for the fish-knives, Norman

Pink may, double may, dead laburnum

Red apples hang like globes of light

Red cliff arise. And up them service lifts

Return, return to Ealing

Rime Intrinsica, Fontmell Magna, Sturminster Newton and Melbury Bubb

Rumbling under blackened girders, Midland, bound for Cricklewood

She died in the upstairs bedroom

She sat with a Warwick Deeping

Shines, billowing cold and gold from Cumnor Hurst

Si monumentum requiris … the church in which we are sitting

Since the wife died the house seems lonely-like

Snow falls in the buffet of Aldersgate station

Softly croons the radiogram, loudly hoot the owls

Some days before death

Spirits of well-shot woodcock, partridge, snipe

Still heavy with may, and the sky ready to fall

Stuart, I sit here in a grateful haze

Take me, Lieutenant, to that Surrey homestead!

Tell me Pippididdledum

Thank God my Afflictions are such

The Advent wind begins to stir

The bear who sits above my bed

The bells of waiting Advent ring

The church was locked, so I went to the incumbent—

The Church’s Restoration

The City will see him no more at important meetings

The clock is frozen in the tower

The Costa Blanca! Skies without a stain!

The dear old village! Lin-lan-lone the bells

The doctor’s intellectual wife

The first-class brains of a senior civil servant

The flag that hung half-mast to-day

The gas was on in the Institute

The heart of Thomas Hardy flew out of Stinsford churchyard

The heavy mahogany door with its wrought-iron screen

The kind old face, the egg-shaped head

The last year’s leaves are on the beech

The lumber of a London-going dray

The lungs draw in the air and rattle it out again

The moon was in the Cambridge sky

The Pooters walk to Watney Lodge

The sea runs back against itself

The six bells stopped, and in the dark I heard

The sky widens to Cornwall. A sense of sea

The sleepy sound of a tea-time tide

The small towns of Ireland by bards are neglected

The sort of girl I like to see

The street is bathed in winter sunset pink

The train at Pershore station was waiting that Sunday night

“The vagrant visitor erstwhile”

“The village inn, the dear old inn

The women who walk down Oxford Street

These small West Country towns where year by year

This cold weather

This is my tenth; his name is Damien

This is the lamp where he first read Whitman

This is the time of day when we in the Men’s Ward

Those moments, tasted once and never done

Through the midlands of Ireland I journeyed by diesel

To every ducal palace

Tonight we feel the muffled peal

Turn again, Higginson

’Twas at the Cecil-Samuels’

Undenominational

Under the ground, on a Saturday afternoon in winter

Underneath a light straw boater

‘Unmitigated England’

Up the ash-tree climbs the ivy

Was it worth keeping the Halt open

We spray the fields and scatter

We used to picnic where the thrift

We, who remember the Faith, the grey-headed ones

What did I see when first I went to Greece?

What joy awaits you from the station yard

When I saw the grapefruit drying, cherry in each centre lying

When melancholy Autumn comes to Wembley

When the great bell

Where yon crenellated mansion on the hill surmounts the pines

Where yonder villa hogs the sea

With her latest roses happily encumbered

Within that parsonage

With oh such peculiar branching and over reaching of wire

With one consuming roar along the shingle

With the roar of the gas my heart gives a shout

“Yes, I was only sidesman here when last

Yes, it was Bedford Park the vision came from—

“Yes, rub some soap upon your feet!

“Yes, the Town Clerk will see you.” In I went

Your peal of ten ring over then this town