First linesMatthew Arnold

A region desolate and wild, The Hayswater Boat
A thousand knights have rein’d their steeds Calais Sands
A wanderer is man from his birth. The Future
Affections, Instincts, Principles, and Powers, Written in Butler’s Sermons
Again I see my bliss at hand; Meeting
And the first grey of morning fill’d the east, Sohrab and Rustum
Artist, whose hand, with horror wing’d, hath torn To George Cruikshank, Esq.
As the kindling glances, The Voice
Because thou hast believ’d, the wheels of life To the Duke of Wellington
Before Man parted for this earthly strand, Revolutions
Children (as such forgive them) have I known, Religious Isolation
Coldly, sadly descends Rugby Chapel
Come to me in my dreams, and then Longing
Come, dear children, let us away; The Forsaken Merman
Creep into thy narrow bed, The Last Word
Crouch’d on the pavement, close by Belgrave Square West London
Down the Savoy valleys sounding, The Church of Brou
Each on his own strict line we move, Too Late
Even in a palace, life may be led well! Worldly Place
Far on its rocky knoll descried Stanzas Composed at Carnac
Foil’d by our fellow-men, depress’d, outworn, Immortality
For him who must see many years, Early Death and Fame
Four years!⁠—and didst thou stay above Geist’s Grave
Glion?⁠—Ah, twenty years, it cuts Obermann Once More
Go, for they call you, Shepherd, from the hill; The Scholar Gipsy
God knows it, I am with you. If to prize To a Republican Friend, 1848
Goethe in Weimar sleeps, and Greece, Memorial Verses
Hark! ah, the Nightingale! Philomela
He saves the sheep, the goats he doth not save! The Good Shepherd with the Kid
“Henri Heine”⁠—’tis here! Heine’s Grave
High fate is theirs, ye sleepless waves, whose ear Cromwell
How changed is here each spot man makes or fills! Thyrsis
I ask not that my bed of death A Wish
I must not say that thou wert true, Euphrosyne
I read in Dante how that horned light, S.S. Lusitania
I saw him sensitive in frame, Stanzas
I too have suffer’d: yet I know Urania
If, in the silent mind of One all-pure, In Utrumque Paratus
In front the awful Alpine track Stanzas in Memory of the Author of Obermann
“In harmony with Nature”? Restless fool, To an Independent Preacher
In Paris all look’d hot and like to fade. Rachel
In summer, on the headlands, The Neckan
In the bare midst of Anglesey they show East and West
In the cedar shadow sleeping, The New Sirens
In the deserted moon-blanch’d street A Summer Night
In this fair stranger’s eyes of grey Absence
In this lone open glade I lie, Lines Written in Kensington Gardens
Is she not come? The messenger was sure. Tristram and Iseult
Joy comes and goes: hope ebbs and flows, To Fausta
Laugh, my Friends, and without blame A Memory-Picture
Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet, The Buried Life
Long fed on boundless hopes, O race of man, The Better Part
“Man is blind because of sin; Pis Aller
Mist clogs the sunshine, Consolation
Moderate tasks and moderate leisure, The Second Best
My horse’s feet beside the lake, A Farewell
“Not by the justice that my father spurn’d, Mycerinus
Not in sunk Spain’s prolong’d death agony; Sonnet to the Hungarian Nation
O frivolous mind of man, Fragment of Chorus of a Dejaneira
“O monstrous, dead, unprofitable world, Written in Emerson’s Essays
“Oh could thy grave at home, at Carthage, be!”⁠— Monica’s Last Prayer
Omit, omit, my simple friend, Horatian Echo
One lesson, Nature, let me learn of thee, Quiet Work
One morn as through Hyde Park we walk’d. Epilogue to Lessing’s Laocoön
Others abide our question. Thou art free. Shakespeare
Poor Matthias!⁠—Found him lying Poor Matthias
Rais’d are the dripping oars⁠— The Youth of Nature
Saint Brandan sails the northern main; Saint Brandan
Say, what blinds us, that we claim the glory Self-Deception
Set where the upper streams of Simois flow Palladium
Silent, the Lord of the world Men of Genius
So far as I conceive the World’s rebuke The World’s Triumphs
So on the floor lay Balder dead; and round Balder Dead
Still glides the stream, slow drops the boat The River
Stop⁠—Not to me, at this bitter departing, Separation
Strew on her roses, roses, Requiescat
Ten years!⁠—and to my waking eye The Terrace at Berne
That son of Italy who tried to blow, Austerity of Poetry
The armless Vatican Cupid New Rome
The evening comes, the fields are still. Bacchanalia; or, the New Age
The Master stood upon the mount, and taught. Progress
The sandy spits, the shore-lock’d lakes, A Southern Night
The sea is calm to-night, Dover Beach
The thoughts that rain their steady glow Despondency
They are gone: all is still: Foolish heart, dost thou quiver? A Modern Sappho
This sentence have I left behind: A Nameless Epitaph
Thou, who dost dwell alone⁠— Desire
Though the Muse be gone away, Persistency of Poetry
Through Alpine meadows soft-suffused Stanzas from the Grande Chartreuse
’Tis death! and peace, indeed, is here, Youth and Calm
To daily tasks we set our hand, Rome-Sickness
To die be given us, or attain! Resignation
True, we must tame our rebel will: Courage
’Twas August, and the fierce sun overhead East London
Unwelcome shroud of the forgotten dead, Alaric at Rome
Vain is the effort to forget. On the Rhine
Was it a dream? We sail’d, I thought we sail’d, A Dream
We cannot kindle when we will Morality
We were apart: yet, day by day, Isolation. To Marguerite
We, O Nature, depart: The Youth of Man
Weary of myself, and sick of asking Self-Dependence
What is it to grow old? Growing Old
What made my heart, at Newstead, fullest swell?⁠— A Picture at Newstead
What mortal, when he saw, Human Life
What poets feel not, when they make, A Caution to Poets
What, Kaiser dead? The heavy news Kaiser Dead
What! for a term so scant Westminster Abbey
When I shall be divorced, some ten years hence, Youth’s Agitations
Where I am, thou ask’st, and where I wended Thekla’s Answer
Where, under Loughrigg, the stream Haworth Churchyard
Who prop, thou ask’st, in these bad days, my mind? To a Friend
Who taught this pleading to unpractis’d eyes? To a Gipsy Child by the Seashore
Why each is striving, from of old, Destiny
Why, when the World’s great mind The World and the Quietist
Ye storm-winds of Autumn Parting
Yes, now the longing is o’erpast, Lines Written by a Death-Bed
“Yes, write it in the rock!” Saint Bernard said, The Divinity
Yes: in the sea of life enisl’d, To Marguerite⁠—Continued
Yet, when I muse on what life is, I seem Continued
Youth rambles on life’s arid mount, The Progress of Poesy

All poets.