Poems begining by T
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Them Flowers
© James Whitcomb Riley
Take a feller 'at's sick and laid up on the shelf,
All shaky, and ga'nted, and pore--
The Seagull
© Herbert Bashford
A ceaseless rover, waif of many climes,
He scorns the tempest, greets the lifting sun
With wings that fling the light and sinks at times
To ride in triumph where the tall waves run.
The Pirates in England
© Rudyard Kipling
When Rome was rotten-ripe to her fall,
And the sceptre passed from her hand,
The pestilent Picts leaped over the wall
To harry the English land.
To Friends At Parting
© Frances Anne Kemble
When the glad sun looks smiling from the sky,
Upon each shadowy glen, and sunny height,
The End of the Book
© Charles Harpur
My work is finished that has been to me
My only solace for this many a day.
The Coming Of Love
© Isabel Ecclestone Mackay
HOW shall I know? Shall I hear Love pass
In the wind that sighs through the poplar tree?
Shall I follow his passing over the grass
By the prisoned scents which his footsteps free?
To The Authoress Of "Aurora Leigh"
© Sydney Thompson Dobell
Were Shakspeare born a twin, his lunar twin
(Not of the golden but the silver bow)
The Flowers
© Rudyard Kipling
To our private taste, there is always something a little exotic,
almost artificial, in songs which, under an English aspect and dress,
are yet so manifestly the product of other skies. They affect us
like translations; the very fauna and flora are alien, remote;
"That Little Dog"
© James Whitcomb Riley
"That little dog 'ud scratch at that door
And go on a-whinin' two hours before
The Blue Nap
© William Matthews
I slept "like a stone," or like that vast
stone-shaped building, the planetarium.
No dreams I can remember:
the dark unbroken blue
on which the stars will take
their places, like bright sheep
The Autumn Crocus
© Robert Laurence Binyon
In the high woods that crest our hills,
Upon a steep, rough slope of forest ground,
Where few flowers grow, sweet blooms to--day I found
Of the Autumn Crocus, blowing pale and fair.
Dim falls the sunlight there;
And a mild fragrance the lone thicket fills.
Tommy's Dead
© Sydney Thompson Dobell
What am I staying for, boys,
You're all born and bred,
'Tis fifty years and more, boys,
Since wife and I were wed,
And she'd gone before, boys,
And Tommy's dead.
To Pompeius Varus
© Eugene Field
Pompey, what fortune gives you back
To the friends and the gods who love you?
The Painter
© Edgar Albert Guest
When my hair is thin and silvered, an' my time of toil is through,
When I've many years behind me, an' ahead of me a few,
I shall want to sit, I reckon, sort of dreamin' in the sun,
An' recall the roads I've traveled an' the many things I've done,
An' I hope there'll be no picture that I'll hate to look upon
When the time to paint it better or to wipe it out is gone.
The Prince's Progress
© Christina Georgina Rossetti
Till all sweet gums and juices flow,
Till the blossom of blossoms blow,
The long hours go and come and go,
The bride she sleepeth, waketh, sleepeth,
Waiting for one whose coming is slow:
Hark! the bride weepeth.
The Alien
© Aldous Huxley
A petal drifted loose
From a great magnolia bloom,
Your face hung in the gloom,
Floating, white and close.
The Honest Man's Fortune (excerpt) - Man is his own star
© John Fletcher
Man is his own star; and the soul that can
Render an honest and a perfect man
Commands all light, all influence, all fate;
Nothing to him falls early, or too late.
Our acts our angels are, or good or ill,
Our fatal shadows that walk by us still.
The Pilot
© William Henry Ogilvie
Time was when the sportsman, with chivalrous care,
Would find a safe line for his follower fair,
