Say what you will, there is not in the world (_W. Blunt_) . . 45
Shall we but turn from braggart pride (_L. Binyon_) . . . . . 20
She walks--the lady of my delight (_A. Meynell_) . . . . . . . 134
Shy as the squirrel and wayward as the swallow (_G. Meredith_) 158
Sitting at times over a hearth that burns (_H. Newbolt_) . . . 15
Slight as thou art, thou art enough to hide (_A. Meynell_) . . 128
So, without overt breach, we fall apart (_W. Watson_) . . . . 142
Softly along the road of evening (_W. de la Mare_) . . . . . . 77
Sombre and rich the skies (_L. Johnson_) . . . . . . . . . . . 10
Spring goeth all in white (_R. Bridges_) . . . . . . . . . . . 78
Tell the tune his feet beat (_A. S. Cripps_) . . . . . . . . . 32
The dove did lend me wings. I fled away (_W. Blunt_) . . . . 79
The fountain murmuring of sleep (_A. Symons_) . . . . . . . . 154
The hill pines were sighing (_R. Bridges_) . . . . . . . . . . 68
{174}
The Lady Poverty was fair (_A. Meynell_) . . . . . . . . . . . 131
The moon is up: the stars are bright (_A. Noyes_) . . . . . . 14
There is a hill beside the silver Thames (_R. Bridges_) . . . 70
There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night (_H. Newbolt_) 115
These hearts were woven of human joys and cares (_R. Brooke_) 24
This is a sacred city built of marvellous earth
(_J. Masefield_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 123
This labouring, vast, Tellurian galleon (_F. Thompson_) . . . 149
This was her table, these her trim outspread
(_J. B. B. Nichols_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9
Through the sunny garden (_M. E. Coleridge_) . . . . . . . . . 37
Time, you old gipsy man (_R. Hodgson_) . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
'Tis but a week since down the glen (_G. Gould_) . . . . . . . 124
To-day, all day, I rode upon the down (_W. Blunt_) . . . . . . 79
To the forgotten dead (_M. L. Woods_) . . . . . . . . . . . . 12
To the heart of youth the world is a highwayside
(_R. L. Stevenson_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 113
Too soothe and mild your lowland airs (_L. Abercrombie_) . . . 36
Troy Town is covered up with weeds (_J. Masefield_) . . . . . 3
Trusty, dusky, vivid, true (_R. L. Stevenson_) . . . . . . . . 157
Twilight it is, and the far woods are dim, and the rooks
cry and call (_J. Masefield_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 138