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index of first lines
Nothing is more mysterious than a ghost. There are such
Nothing means anything now:
Nothing means much now,
Now I am come to that strange place
Now I am forty I must lick my bruises
Now you have left that face I am perplexed
O sun, and moonlight shining in the woods, (Horace)
O you haunting ghosts, I move towards you.
Of all that can be said silence is best
One good crucifixion and he rose from the dead
Quantum meruit was what he got
Quiet. It is winter and the frost
Read me or not: I am nobody
River, deep as death, deeper, Avernus,
She asks me how I do
Sheep under the beeches: the old dykes
‘Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!’ It came then like a roar
Sleep has my muscles and a cord my throat.
So in the morning light she came to him
Summer has come, with no comfort
The apple trees are dulled in the red sun,
The art, the artifex, and I.
The clear water ripples between crags
The day goes slowly, it is the first day
The few syllables of a horse’s scuffle at the edge of the road
The future is the only thing
The individual is the thing
The larks flew up like jack-in-the-boxes
The man of quality is not quite what he was
The minutes have gone by, the hours, the days,
The mist is so thin, the world stands still
The only dream I had did not come true
The plunging year, the bright year. Through the clouds
The quiet flood
The self is the bit that has not yet emerged;
The splashed light on the rain-wet stones
The stream that runs
The un-red deer
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98
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5
38
163
149
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105
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67
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149
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13
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10
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15
35
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