Poems begining by T
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The Braes of Yarrow
© John Logan
"Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream!
When first on them I met my lover;
Time To Tinker 'Roun'!
© Paul Laurence Dunbar
Summah 's nice, wif sun a-shinin',
Spring is good wif greens and grass,
The Stewed Samaritan
© George Ade
Within a house of public entertainment
There sat an ebon slave close at the foot
To The Companions
© Rudyard Kipling
How comes it that, at even-tide,
When level beams should show most truth,
Man, failing, takes unfailing pride
In memories of his frolic youth?
The First Booke Of Qvodlibets
© Robert Hayman
Though my best lines no dainty things affords,
My worst haue in them some thing else then words.
The Red King
© Charles Kingsley
And fend our princes every one,
From foul mishap and trahison;
But kings that harrow Christian men
Shall England never bide again.
The Rose-Bush
© Anonymous
There was a rose-bush in a garden growing,
Its tender leaves unfolding day by day;
The sun looked-on, and his down-going
Left it amid the starlit dusk of nights of May.
The Maryland Yellow-Throat
© Henry Van Dyke
While May bedecks the naked trees
With tassels and embroideries,
The Robin
© John Greenleaf Whittier
MY old Welsh neighbor over the way
Crept slowly out in the sun of spring,
Pushed from her ears the locks of gray,
And listened to hear the robin sing.
The Brus Book XVIII
© John Barbour
[Edward Bruce marches toward Dundalk; he debates whether to fight]
Bot he that rest anoyit ay
The Fugitives
© Percy Bysshe Shelley
I.
The waters are flashing,
The white hail is dashing,
The lightnings are glancing,
The hoar-spray is dancing
Away!
The Bees and Flies
© Rudyard Kipling
The egregious rustic put to death
A bull by stopping of its breath,
Disposed the carcass in a shed
With fragrant herbs and branches spread,
And, having well performed the charm,
Sat down to wait the promised swarm.
The Place Where The Rainbow Ends
© Paul Laurence Dunbar
THERE'S a fabulous story
Full of splendor and glory,
The Voice Of The Banjo
© Paul Laurence Dunbar
In a small and lonely cabin out of noisy traffic's way,
Sat an old man, bent and feeble, dusk of face, and hair of gray,
And beside him on the table, battered, old, and worn as he,
Lay a banjo, droning forth this reminiscent melody:
The Curse of Mother Flood
© Henry Kendall
Wizened the wood is, and wan is the way through it;
White as a corpse is the face of the fen;
The Poisoned Arrow
© Dora Sigerson Shorter
All wounded sore he lay upon my path,
His piteous moans his woeful need confessed;
