Poems begining by T
/ page 157 of 916 /
The Cross Roads; Or, The Haymaker's Story
© John Clare
The maids, impatient now old Goody ceased,
As restless children from the school released,
Right gladly proving, what she'd just foretold,
That young ones' stories were preferred to old,
Turn to the whisperings of their former joy,
That oft deceive, but very rarely cloy.
To The Fossil Flower
© Jones Very
Dark fossil flower! I see thy leaves unrolled,
With all thy lines of beauty freshly marked,
The Marseillaise
© John Todhunter
What means this mighty chant, wherein its wail
Of some intolerable woe, grown strong
To Mary Shelley
© Percy Bysshe Shelley
THE world is dreary,
And I'm weary
Of wandering on without thee, Mary;
A joy was erewhile
In thy voice and thy smile,
And 'tis gone, when I should be gone too, Mary.
The Boatman
© Vasily Andreyevich Zhukovsky
Driven by misfortune's whirlwind,
Having neither oar nor rudder,
The Unchosen
© Judson Jerome
I guess I have a deficiency. God never
said boo to me when as a boy I stood
straining in church with muscular endeavor
for the sweet squirt of salvation. I never could
see why He spoke to this or that old lady,
The Birthday Wreath
© John Greenleaf Whittier
Blossom and greenness, making all
The winter birthday tropical,
And the plain Quaker parlors gay,
Have gone from bracket, stand, and wall;
We saw them fade, and droop, and fall,
And laid them tenderly away.
The Honeysuckle
© Dante Gabriel Rossetti
I PLUCKED a honeysuckle where
The hedge on high is quick with thorn,
The Cripple
© Leon Gellert
He totters round and dangles those odd shapes
That were his legs. His eyes are never dim.
The Old Ghost
© Thomas Lovell Beddoes
Over the water an old ghost strode
To a churchyard on the shore,
The Proclamation
© John Greenleaf Whittier
SAINT PATRICK, slave to Milcho of the herds
Of Ballymena, wakened with these words:
The Unchanging
© Sara Teasdale
SUN-SWEPT beaches with a light wind blowing
From the immense blue circle of the sea,
And the soft thunder where long waves whiten
These were the same for Sappho as for me.
The Princess: A Medley: Come down, O Maid
© Alfred Tennyson
Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height:
What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang)
The Joke
© Charles Bukowski
then he leans back, thinks that I
have no sense of humor, have had a
bad day, or that he has overestimated my
intelligence.
The Braemar Road
© Nina Murdoch
The road that leads to Braemar winds ever in and out.
It wanders here and dawdles there, and trips and turns about
