Page:The poems of Richard Watson Gilder, Gilder, 1908.djvu/497

The marble pool, like the great sea, hath moods, 432.
The mountain that the morn doth kiss, 60.
The night was black and drear, 99.
The night was dark, tho' sometimes a faint star, 3.
The North Star draws the hero; he abides, 268.
The pallid watcher of the eastern skies, 12.
The poet died last night, 136.
The poet from his own sorrow, 169.
The poet's day is different from another, 253.
The poets silent and the poets fled? 451.
The purple of the summer fields, the dark, 150.
The secret—he has learned it, 380.
The sky is dark, and dark the bay below, 92.
The smile of her I love is like the dawn, 25.
The speech that day doth utter, and the night, 61.
The spirit of adventure is, 316.
The sun rose swift and sent a golden gleam, 6.
The White Czar's people cry, 164.
The wind from out the west is blowing, 89.
The winding path, 455.
The window's white, the candle's red, 149.
The winds of morning move and sing, 89.
The years are angels that bring down from Heaven, 153.
There are four sisters known to mortals well, 120.
There are more poets than the rhyming race, 453.
There at the chasm's edge behold her lean, 215.
There is nothing new under the sun, 10.
There was a field green and fragrant with grass, 7.
These are the sounds that I heard at the home in "The Pines," 348.
They said, "God made him," ah, the clean, great God! 400.
They said that all the troubadours had flown, 135.
They who love the poets, 421.
This actor in great Shakespeare's shadow moved, 394.
This bronze doth keep the very form and mold, 117.
This day, a strange and beautiful word was spoken, 275.
This day I heard such music that I thought, 128.
This day I read in the sad scholar's page, 269.
This hour my heart went forth, as in old days, 264.
This is an island of the golden Past, 245.
This is her picture painted ere mine eyes, 6.
This is my creed, 168.
This is not Death, nor Sorrow, nor sad Hope, 209.
This is the earth he walked on; not alone, 53.
This is the end of the town that I love the best, 219.
This is the eternal mystery of art, 388.
This is the flower of thought, 124.
This is the house she was born in, full four-score years ago, 101.
This man loved Lincoln, him did Lincoln love, 310.
This night the enchanting musicians rendered a trio of Beethoven, 330.
This night, when I blew out my candle flame, 419.
This timeless river—oldest of all time, 340.