| First Line | Poem |
|---|
| Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, | |
| I leant upon a coppice gate | |
| Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, | |
| Turning and turning in the widening gyre | |
| In Flanders fields the poppies blow | |
| April is the cruellest month, breeding | |
| Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, | |
| Tiger! Tiger! burning bright | |
| Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness, | |
| On either side the river lie | |
| Anger be now your song, immortal one, | |
| Arms and the man I sing, the first who came, | |
| Of Man's first disobedience, and the fruit | |
| Mark but this flea, and mark in this, | |
| In the middle of the journey of our life | |
| How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. | |
| The day you died I went into the dirt, | |
| So much depends | |
| The Dutch had never seen a flower | |
| The time you won your town the race | |
| | First Line | Poem |
|---|
| I imagine this midnight moment's forest: | |
| He, who navigated with success | |
| I've heard there was a secret chord | |
| Nobody stuffs the world in at your eyes. | |
| Dull water spirit--and Protean god | |
| Let us go then, you and I, | |
| Whose woods these are I think I know. | |
| I celebrate myself, and sing myself, | |
| Because I could not stop for Death - | |
| Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! | |
| The Frost performs its secret ministry, | |
| My first thought was, he lied in every word, | |
| You do not do, you do not do | |
| Pearl, to delight a prince's day, | |
| So. The Spear-Danes in days gone by | |
| When the siege and assault ceased at Troy, and the city | |
| i thank You God for most this amazing | |
| The Bishop tells us: 'When the boys come back | |
| Through sepia air the boarders come and go, | |
| Between my finger and my thumb | |
|
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