| | Poem Title | First Lines | Period | # Lines | # Reads |
| 1: | "Au Revoir." A Dramatic Vignette. | Tis she, no doubt. Brunette,--and tall: | | 149 | 273 |
| 2: | A Broken Sword. | The shopman shambled from the doorway out | | 28 | 286 |
| 3: | A Chapter Of Froissart. | You don't know Froissart now, young folks. | | 60 | 246 |
| 4: | A Dialogue To The Memory Of Mr. Alexander Pope. | I sing of POPE-- | | 109 | 252 |
| 5: | A Fairy Tale. | Curled in a maze of dolls and bricks, | | 30 | 247 |
| 6: | A Familiar Epistle | Dear Cosmopolitan,--I know | | 61 | 246 |
| 7: | A Fancy From Fontenelle. | The Rose in the garden slipped her bud, | | 14 | 245 |
| 8: | A Garden Song. | Here, in this sequestered close | | 24 | 267 |
| 9: | A Legacy. | Ah, Postumus, we all must go: | | 24 | 247 |
| 10: | A Love-Song. | When first in CELIA'S ear I poured | | 16 | 346 |
| 11: | A Madrigal. | Before me, careless lying, | | 28 | 282 |
| 12: | A Miltonic Exercise | What need of votive Verse | | 32 | 263 |
| 13: | A New Song Of The Spring Gardens. | Come hither ye gallants, come hither ye maids, | | 24 | 327 |
| 14: | A Pleasant Invective Against Printing | The Press is too much with us, small and great: | | 14 | 291 |
| 15: | A Revolutionary Relic. | Old it is, and worn and battered, | | 116 | 229 |
| 16: | A Roman "Round-Robin." | Flaccus, you write us charming songs: | | 36 | 252 |
| 17: | A Song Of The Greenaway Child | As I went a-walking on Lavender Hill, | | 16 | 299 |
| 18: | A Song To The Lute. | When first I came to Court, | | 32 | 266 |
| 19: | A Sonnet In Dialogue. | Come to the Terrace, May,--the sun is low. | | 28 | 351 |
| 20: | A Story From A Dictionary. | Love mocks us all"--as Horace said of old: | | 170 | 326 |
| 21: | A Tale Of Polypheme. | There's nothing new"--Not that I go so far | | 234 | 324 |
| 22: | A Welcome From The "Johnson Club" | When Pope came back from Trojan wars once more, | | 29 | 278 |
| 23: | Ad Rosam. | I had a vacant dwelling Where situated, I, | | 96 | 319 |
| 24: | Alfred, Lord Tennyson. | Grief there will be, and may, | | 36 | 282 |
| 25: | An April Pastoral. | Whither away, fair Neat-herdess? | | 14 | 328 |
| 26: | An Eastern Apologue. | Melik the Sultán, tired and wan, | | 22 | 262 |
| 27: | An Epistle To An Editor | A new Review!" You make me tremble | | 67 | 281 |
| 28: | An Old Fish Pond. | Green growths of mosses drop and bead | | 49 | 259 |
| 29: | André Le Chapelain. | Queen Venus, round whose feet, | | 88 | 263 |
| 30: | At The Convent Gate. | Wistaria blossoms trail and fall | | 36 | 242 |
| 31: | At The Sign Of The Lyre. | At the Sign of the Lyre, | | 12 | 303 |
| 32: | Charles George Gordon. | Rather be dead than praised," he said, | | 12 | 243 |
| 33: | Daisy's Valentines. | All night through Daisy's sleep, it seems, | | 48 | 354 |
| 34: | Don Quixote. | Behind thy pasteboard, on thy battered hack, | | 14 | 269 |
| 35: | Dora Versus Rose. | From the tragic-est novels at Mudie's- | | 58 | 319 |
| 36: | For A Copy Of Herrick. | Many days have come and gone, | | 12 | 324 |
| 37: | For Old Sake's Sake! | For old sake's sake!" 'Twere hard to choose | | 15 | 306 |
| 38: | For The Avery "Knickerbocker." | Shade of Herrick, Muse of Locker, | | 30 | 300 |
| 39: | Growing Gray. | A little more toward the light; | | 31 | 330 |
| 40: | Henry Fielding. | Not from the ranks of those we call | | 88 | 227 |
| 41: | Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. | Not to be tuneless in old age! | | 18 | 236 |
| 42: | Horatian Ode On The Tercentenary Of "Don Quixote" | Advents we greet of great and small; | | 24 | 337 |
| 43: | Household Art. | Mine be a cot," for the hours of play, | | 18 | 247 |
| 44: | In The Royal Academy. | They have not come! And ten is past, | | 104 | 306 |
| 45: | In Town. | Toiling in Town now is "horrid, | | 41 | 330 |
| 46: | Incognita. | Just for a space that I met her | | 88 | 315 |
| 47: | Jocosa Lyra. | In our hearts is the Great One of Avon | | 28 | 236 |
| 48: | Lines To A Stupid Picture. | Five geese,--a landscape damp and wild, | | 36 | 245 |
| 49: | Little Blue-Ribbons. | Little Blue-Ribbons!" We call her that | | 40 | 245 |
| 50: | Molly Trefusis. | Now the Graces are four and the Venuses two, | | 64 | 248 |
| 51: | My Books. | They dwell in the odour of camphor, | | 24 | 222 |
| 52: | Of His Mistress. | She that I love is neither brown nor fair, | | 20 | 332 |
| 53: | Outward Bound. | Come, Laura, patience. Time and Spring | | 56 | 323 |
| 54: | Palomydes. | Him best in all the dim Arthuriad, | | 25 | 252 |
| 55: | Pepys' "Diary" | You ask me what was his intent? | | 25 | 323 |
| 56: | Premiers Amours. | Old Loves and old dreams, | | 56 | 305 |
| 57: | Prologue To Abbey's "Quiet Life." | Even as one in city pent, | | 46 | 268 |
| 58: | Prologue To Abbey's Edition Of "She Stoops To Conquer." | In the year Seventeen Hundred and Seventy and Three, | | 102 | 268 |
| 59: | Sat Est Scripsisse. | When You and I have wandered beyond the reach of call, | | 28 | 269 |
| 60: | The 'Squire At Vauxhall. | Nothing so idle as to waste | | 104 | 321 |
| 61: | The Book-Plate's Petition. | While cynic CHARLES still trimm'd the vane | 1792 | 42 | 234 |
| 62: | The Carver And The Caliph. | HAROUN ALRASCHID, in the days | | 61 | 248 |
| 63: | The Claims Of The Muse. | Too oft we hide our Frailties' Blame | | 76 | 300 |
| 64: | The Climacteric. | When do the reasoning Powers decline? | | 62 | 308 |
| 65: | The Curé's Progress. | Monsieur the Curé down the street | | 32 | 278 |
| 66: | The Dilettant. | The most oppressive Form of Cant | | 48 | 243 |
| 67: | The Distressed Poet. | One knows the scene so well,--a touch, | | 28 | 245 |
| 68: | The Friend Of Humanity And The Rhymer | OF H. I want a verse. It gives you little pains; | | 34 | 292 |
| 69: | The Happy Printer | The Printer's is a happy lot: | | 33 | 243 |
| 70: | The Ladies Of St. James's. | The ladies of St. James's | | 56 | 286 |
| 71: | The Last Despatch. | Hurrah! the Season's past at last; | | 50 | 320 |
| 72: | The Last Proof | FINIS at last--the end, the End, the END! | | 32 | 244 |
| 73: | The Lost Elixir. | Ah, yes, that "drop of human blood! | | 18 | 225 |
| 74: | The Maltworm's Madrigal. | I drink of the Ale of Southwark, I drink of the Ale of Chepe; | | 24 | 310 |
| 75: | The Masque Of The Months. | Firstly thou, churl son of Janus, | | 72 | 290 |
| 76: | The Milkmaid. A New Song To An Old Tune. | Across the grass I see her pass; | | 40 | 255 |
| 77: | The Nameless Charm. | Stella, 'tis not your dainty head, | | 12 | 319 |
| 78: | The Noble Patron. | What is a Patron? JOHNSON knew, | | 144 | 309 |
| 79: | The Old Sedan Chair. | It stands in the stable-yard, under the eaves, | | 43 | 288 |
| 80: | The Passionate Printer To His Love | Come live with me and be my Dear; | | 24 | 294 |
| 81: | The Poet And The Critics. | A certain Bard (as Bards will do) | | 54 | 245 |
| 82: | The Poet's Seat. An Idyll Of The Suburbs. | It was an elm-tree root of yore, | | 56 | 240 |
| 83: | The Screen In The Lumber Room. | Yes, here it is, behind the box, | | 40 | 319 |
| 84: | The Successful Author. | When Fate presents us with the Bays, | | 59 | 227 |
| 85: | The Toyman. | Sense (cry the one Side), Sense, of course. | | 49 | 228 |
| 86: | The Two Painters. | In Art some hold Themselves content | | 48 | 315 |
| 87: | The Virgin With The Bells. | Much strange is true. And yet so much | | 64 | 305 |
| 88: | The Water Of Gold. | Buy,--who'll buy?" In the market-place, | | 32 | 212 |
| 89: | The Water-Cure. A Tale: In The Manner Of Prior. | CARDENIO'S fortunes ne'er miscarried | | 136 | 320 |
| 90: | To A Child. | How shall I sing you, Child, for whom | | 32 | 258 |
| 91: | To A Missal Of The Thirteenth Century. | Missal of the Gothic age, | | 40 | 257 |
| 92: | To A Pastoral Poet. | Among my best I put your Book, | | 18 | 313 |
| 93: | To An Intrusive Butterfly. | I watch you through the garden walks, | | 43 | 287 |
| 94: | To An Unknown Bust In The British Museum. | Who were you once? Could we but guess, | | 49 | 256 |
| 95: | To His Book. | For mart and street you seem to pine | | 48 | 345 |
| 96: | To Phidyle. | Incense, and flesh of swine, and this year's grain, | | 14 | 316 |
| 97: | To The Mammoth-Tortoise Of The Mascarene Islands. | Monster Chelonian, you suggest | | 24 | 231 |
| 98: | Two Sermons. | Between the rail of woven brass, | | 20 | 249 |
| 99: | Verses To Order. | How weary 'twas to wait! The year | | 40 | 272 |
| 100: | Victor Hugo. | He set the trumpet to his lips, and lo! | | 12 | 233 |
| 101: | With A Volume Of Verse. | About the ending of the Ramadán, | | 20 | 330 |
