First linesW. B. Yeats

A cursing rogue with a merry face, The Hour Before Dawn
A doll in the doll-maker’s house The Dolls
A pity beyond all telling The Pity of Love
A speckled cat and a tame hare Two Songs of a Fool
A sudden blow: the great wings beating still Leda and the Swan
Ah, that Time could touch a form Peace
All things can tempt me from this craft of verse: All Things Can Tempt Me
Although crowds gathered once if she but showed her face, Fallen Majesty
Although I can see him still The Fisherman
“Although I’d lie lapped up in linen Under the Round Tower
Although you hide in the ebb and flow The Fisherman
And thus declared that Arab lady: Solomon and the Witch
As I came over Windy Gap Running to Paradise
Autumn is over the long leaves that love us, The Falling of the Leaves
Bald heads forgetful of their sins, The Scholars
Be you still, be you still, trembling heart; To His Heart, Bidding It Have No Fear
Because to-day is some religious festival She Turns the Dolls’ Faces to the Wall
Being out of heart with government An Appointment
Beloved, gaze in thine own heart, The Two Trees
Bid a strong ghost stand at the head A Prayer for My Son
Bring where our Beauty lies Certain Artists Bring Her Dolls and Drawings
“Call down the hawk from the air; The Hawk
Come play with me; To a Squirrel at Kyle-na-gno
Come praise Colonus’ horses and come praise Colonus’ Praise
Come round me, little childer; The Ballad of Moll Magee
Cumhal called out, bending his head, The Blessed
Dance there upon the shore; To a Child Dancing in the Wind
Dear Craoibhin Aoibhin, look into our case. At the Abbey Theatre
Dear fellow-artist, why so free To a Young Beauty
Do not because this day I have grown saturnine Under Saturn
Do you not hear me calling, white deer with no horns! He Mourns for the Change That Has Come Upon Him and His Beloved and Longs for the End of the World
Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet; Down by the Salley Gardens
Far off, most secret, and inviolate Rose, The Secret Rose
Fasten your hair with a golden pin, He Gives His Beloved Certain Rhymes
Five-and-twenty years have gone In Memory of Alfred Pollexfen
For certain minutes at the least Demon and Beast
For one throb of the Artery, A Meditation in Time of War
God grant a blessing on this tower and cottage A Prayer on Going Into My House
Good Father John O’Hart The Ballad of Father O’Hart
Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths, He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven
Half close your eyelids, loosen your hair, He Thinks of Those Who Have Spoken Evil of His Beloved
Hands, do what you’re bid; The Balloon of the Mind
Has no one said those daring Two Years Later
He stood among a crowd at Drumahair; The Man Who Dreamed of Faeryland
Hope that you may understand! The Realists
How should the world be luckier if this house, Upon a House Shaken by the Land Agitation
I am worn out with dreams; Men Improve with the Years
I bring you with reverent hands A Poet to His Beloved
I cried when the moon was murmuring to the birds: The Withering of the Boughs
I dreamed that I stood in a valley, and amid sighs, He Tells of a Valley Full of Lovers
I had this thought awhile ago, The Consolation
I have drunk ale from the Country of the Young He Thinks of His Past Greatness When a Part of the Constellation of Heaven
I have heard the pigeons of the Seven Woods In the Seven Woods
I have met them at close of day Easter, 1916
I have no happiness in dreaming of Brycelinde, Under the Moon
I hear the Shadowy Horses, their long manes a-shake, He Bids His Beloved Be at Peace
I heard the old, old men say, The Old Men Admirings Themselves in the Water
I know that I shall meet my fate An Irish Airman Foresees His Death
I made my song a coat A Coat
I passed along the water’s edge below the humid trees, The Indian Upon God
I rise in the dawn, and I kneel and blow The Song of the Old Mother
I sat on cushioned otter skin: The Madness of King Goll
I swayed upon the gaudy stern His Dream
I think it better that in times like these On Being Asked for a War Poem
I thought no more was needed A Song
I thought of your beauty, and this arrow, The Arrow
I walk through the long schoolroom questioning, Among School Children
I wander by the edge He Hears the Cry of the Sedge
I went out to the hazel wood, The Song of Wandering Aengus
I whispered, “I am too young.” The Young Man’s Song
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, The Lake Isle of Innisfree
I would be ignorant as the dawn The Dawn
I, the poet William Yeats, To Be Carved on a Stone at Ballylee
I’ll say and maybe dream I have drawn content⁠— The Living Beauty
If any man drew near A Woman Homer Sung
If Michael, leader of God’s host The Rose of Peace
If this importunate heart trouble your peace The Lover Asks Forgiveness Because of His Many Moods
If you have revisited the town, thin Shade, To a Shade
If you, that have grown old, were the first dead, The New Faces
Indignant at the fumbling wits, the obscure spite Paudeen
King Eochaid came at sundown to a wood The Two Kings
Know, that I would accounted be To Ireland in the Coming Times
Kusta ben Luka is my name, I write The Gift of Harun-al-Rashid
“Lay me in a cushioned chair; The Ballad of the Foxhunter
Many ingenious lovely things are gone Nineteen Hundred and Nineteen
May God be praised for woman On Woman
Midnight has come and the great Christ Church Bell, All Souls’ Night
Much did I rage when young, Youth and Age
My dear, my dear, I know To a Young Girl
Now all the truth is out, To a Friend Whose Work Has Come to Nothing
Now as at all times I can see in the mind’s eye, The Magi
Now must I these three praise⁠— Friends
Now that we’re almost settled in our house In Memory of Major Robert Gregory
O but we talked at large before Sixteen Dead Men
O cloud-pale eyelids, dream-dimmed eyes, He Tells of the Perfect Beauty
O curlew, cry no more in the air, He Reproves the Curlew
O heart, be at peace, because Against Unworthy Praise
O sweet everlasting Voices, be still; The Everlasting Voices
O what to me the little room The Heart of the Woman
O women, kneeling by your altar rails long hence, A Lover Speaks to the Hearers of His Songs in Coming Days
O’Driscoll drove with a song The Host of the Air
On the grey rock of Cashel the mind’s eye The Double Vision of Michael Robartes
Once more the storm is howling and half hid A Prayer for My Daughter
Once, when midnight smote the air, On Those That Hated The Playboy of the Western World, 1907
One had a lovely face, Memory
One that is ever kind said yesterday: The Folly of Being Comforted
Others because you did not keep A Deep-Sworn Vow
Out-worn heart, in a time out-worn, Into the Twilight
Pale brows, still hands and dim hair, The Lover Mourns for the Loss of Love
Pardon great enemy, Her Friends Bring Her a Christmas Tree
Pardon, old fathers, if you still remain Introductory Rhymes
Poets with whom I learned my trade, The Grey Rock
Pour wine and dance if Manhood still have pride, The Mountain Tomb
“Put off that mask of burning gold The Mask
Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days! To the Rose Upon the Rood of Time
Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World! The Rose of Battle
Sang Solomon to Sheba, Solomon to Sheba
She has not grown uncivil Her Race
She is foremost of those that I would hear praised. Her Praise
She is playing like a child The End of Day
She lived in storm and strife, That the Night Come
She might, so noble from head A Thought from Propertius
She that but little patience knew, On a Political Prisoner
Shy one, shy one, To an Isle in the Water
Sickness brought me this A Friend’s Illness
Some may have blamed you that you took away Reconciliation
Suddenly I saw the cold and rook-delighting Heaven The Cold Heaven
Surely among a rich man’s flowering lawns, Meditations in Time of Civil War
That is no country for old men. The young Sailing to Byzantium
The cat went here and there The Cat and the Moon
The Danaan children laugh, in cradles of wrought gold, A Cradle Song
The dews drop slowly and dreams gather: unknown spears The Valley of the Black Pig
The fascination of what’s difficult The Fascination of What’s Difficult
The host is riding from Knocknarea The Hosting of the Sidhe
The island dreams under the dawn The Indian to His Love
The jester walked in the garden: The Cap and Bells
The moments passed as at a play, A Memory of Youth
The old priest Peter Gilligan The Ballad of Father Gilligan
The Powers whose name and shape no living creature knows The Poet Pleads with the Elemental Powers
The trees are in their autumn beauty, The Wild Swans at Coole
The true faith discovered was Wisdom
There is a queen in China, or maybe it’s in Spain, His Phoenix
There is grey in your hair. Broken Dreams
There was a man whom Sorrow named his friend The Sad Shepherd
There where the course is, At Galway Races
These are the clouds about the fallen sun, These Are the Clouds
They hold their public meetings where The Three Monuments
They must to keep their certainty accuse The Leaders of the Crowd
This great purple butterfly, Another Song of a Fool
This night has been so strange that it seemed Presences
Though leaves are many, the root is one; The Coming of Wisdom with Time
“Though logic choppers rule the town, Tom O’Roughley
Though nurtured like the sailing moon A Man Young and Old
“Though to my feathers in the wet, The Three Beggars
Though you are in your shining days, The Lover Pleads with His Friend for Old Friends
Three old hermits took the air The Three Hermits
Through winter-time we call on spring, The Wheel
Time drops in decay, The Moods
“Time to put off the world and go somewhere Beggar to Beggar Cried
Toil, and grow rich, The Witch
Turning and turning in the widening gyre The Second Coming
Was it the double of my dream Towards Break of Day
We have cried in our despair When Helen Lived
We sat together at one summer’s end, Adam’s Curse
We who are old, old and gay, A Faery Song
Were you but lying cold and dead, He Wishes His Beloved Were Dead
“What do you make so fair and bright?” The Cloak, the Boat, and the Shoes
“What have I earned for all that work,” I said, The People
What need you, being come to sense, September 1913
What shall I do with this absurdity⁠— The Tower
What’s riches to him The Peacock
When have I last looked on Lines Written in Dejection
When her soul flies to the predestined dancing-place Her Courage
When I play on my fiddle in Dooney, The Fiddler of Dooney
When my arms wrap you round I press He Remembers Forgotten Beauty
When the flaming lute-thronged angelic door is wide; The Travail of Passion
When you are old and grey and full of sleep, When You Are Old
Where dips the rocky highland The Stolen Child
Where, where but here have Pride and Truth, On Hearing That the Students of Our New University Have Joined the Agitation Against Immoral Literature
While I, from that reed-throated whisperer Closing Rhymes
Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream? The Rose of the World
Why should I blame her that she filled my days No Second Troy
Wine comes in at the mouth A Drinking Song
With the old kindness, the old distinguished grace Her Courtesy
Would I could cast a sail on the water The Collar-Bone of a Hare
“Would it were anything but merely voice!” King and No King
You gave but will not give again To a Wealthy Man Who Promised a Second Subscription to the Dublin Municipal Gallery if It Were Proved the People Wanted Pictures
You say, as I have often given tongue To a Poet, Who Would Have Me Praise Certain Bad Poets, Imitators of His and Mine
You waves, though you dance by my feet like children at play, The Meditation of the Old Fisherman
“Your eyes that once were never weary of mine Ephemera

All poets.