Poems begining by T
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The Berg (A Dream)
© Herman Melville
I saw a ship of martial build(Her standards set, her brave apparel on)Directed as by madness mereAgainst a stolid iceberg steer,Nor budge it, though the infatuate ship went down
The Death of the Ox
© McLachlan Alexander
And thou art gone, my poor dumb friend! thy troubles all are past;A faithful friend thou wert indeed, e'en to the very last!And thou wert the prop of my house, my children's pride and pet,--Who now will help to free me from this weary load of debt?
Here, single-handed, in the bush I battled on for years,My heart sometimes buoyed up with hope, sometimes bowed down with fears
The Burial of the Rev. George Gilfillan
© William Topaz McGonagall
On the Gilfillan burial day,In the Hill o' Balgay,It was a most solemn sight to see,Not fewer than thirty thousand people assembled in Dundee,All watching the funeral procession of Gilfillan that day,That death had suddenly taken away,And was going to be buried in the Hill o' Balgay
There Is No Death
© McCreery John Luckey
There is no death! The stars go down To rise upon some other shore,And bright in heaven's jeweled crown They shine for evermore.
[There is no God, as I was taught in youth...]
© John Masefield
There is no God, as I was taught in youth,Though each, according to his stature, buildsSome covered shrine for what he thinks the truth,Which day by day his reddest heart-blood gilds
The River
© John Masefield
All other waters have their time of peace.Calm, or the turn of tide or summer drought;But on these bars the tumults never cease,In violent death this river passes out.
The Racer
© John Masefield
I saw the racer coming to the jump, Staring with fiery eyeballs as he rusht,I heard the blood within his body thump, I saw him launch, I heard the toppings crusht
The Blacksmith
© John Masefield
The blacksmith in his sparky forge,Beat on the white-hot softness there;Even as he beat he sang an airTo keep the sparks out of his gorge.
The Wind Our Enemy
© Marriott Anne
Windflattening its gaunt furious self againstthe naked siding, knifing in the woundsof time, pausing to tear aside the lastold scab of paint.
The Island
© Macpherson Jay
No man alone an island: weStand circled with a lapping sea.I break the ring and let you go:Above my head the waters flow.
The Day-Labourer
© Macpherson Jay
Time is a labourer on God’s farm,And keeps His living things from harm
The Toll-gate Man
© MacDonald Wilson Pugsley
They tore down the toll-gate By the songless mill,But the gray gate-man Takes toll there still;And he takes from all Whether or not they will.
The Song of the Ski
© MacDonald Wilson Pugsley
Norse am I when the first snow falls;Norse am I till the ice departs
The Song of the New Jesus
© MacDonald Wilson Pugsley
All the fat and shiny preachers From their pulpits say:
The Song of the Hemp
© MacDonald Wilson Pugsley
The stubbled Hemp-field called the wind That passed with moistened eyes:
The Girl behind the Man behind the Gun
© MacDonald Wilson Pugsley
You have seen the line of khaki swinging grandly down the street,You have heard the band blare out Britannic songs;You have read a ton of papers and you've thrown them at your feet,And your brain's a battlefield for fighting throngs
The Yellow Bittern
© MacDonagh Thomas
The yellow bittern that never broke out In a drinking bout, might as well have drunk;His bones are thrown on a naked stone Where he lived alone like a hermit monk
