Poems begining by T
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To J. D. H.
© Sidney Lanier
Dear friend, forgive a wild lament
Insanely following thy flight
I would not cumber thine ascent
Nor drag thee back into the night;
The Rhine
© William Lisle Bowles
'Twas morn, and beauteous on the mountain's brow
(Hung with the clusters of the bending vine)
The Dreary Change {The sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill}
© Sir Walter Scott
The sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill,
In Ettrick's vale, is sinking sweet;
The Dead Church
© Charles Kingsley
Wild wild wind, wilt thou never cease thy sighing?
Dark dark night, wilt thou never wear away?
Cold cold church, in thy death sleep lying,
The Lent is past, thy Passion here, but not thine Easter-day.
The Orphans' New Year's Gift
© Arthur Rimbaud
The room is full of shadow; you can hear, indistinctly, the sad soft whispering of two children.
Their foreheads lean forward, still heavy with dreams, beneath the long white bed-curtain
To The Hills!
© Govinda Krishna Chettur
'Tis eight miles out, and eight miles in,
Just at the break of morn.
'Tis ice without and flame within,
To gain a kiss at dawn!
The Idyl Of Battle Hollow
© Francis Bret Harte
No, I won't,--thar, now, so! And it ain't nothin',--no!
And thar's nary to tell that you folks yer don't know;
And it's "Belle, tell us, do!" and it's "Belle, is it true?"
And "Wot's this yer yarn of the Major and you?"
Till I'm sick of it all,--so I am, but I s'pose
Thet is nothin' to you. . . . Well, then, listen! yer goes!
The Boys Appeal
© Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
O say, dear sister, are you coming
Forth to the fields with me?
To our Lord, upon the Water Made Wine
© Richard Crashaw
Thou water turn'st to wine, fair friend of life,
Thy foe, to cross the sweet arts of thy reign,
Distills from thence the tears of wrath and strife,
And so turns wine to water back again.
The Girl Martyr
© Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
Upon his sculptured judgment throne the Roman Ruler sate;
His glittering minions stood around in all their gorgeous state;
But proud as were the noble names that flashed upon each shield
Names known in lofty council halls as well as tented field
None dared approach to break the spell of deep and silent gloom
That hoverd oer his haughty brow, like shadow of the tomb.
The Prodigal Son
© Edith Nesbit
COME home, come home, for your eyes are sore
With the glare of the noonday sun,
And nothing looks as it did before,
And the best of the day is done.
The Tale Of A Pony
© Francis Bret Harte
Name of my heroine, simply "Rose;"
Surname, tolerable only in prose;
To Alex. Smith, The 'Glasgow Poet,' On His Sonnet To 'Fame'
© George Meredith
Not vainly doth the earnest voice of man
Call for the thing that is his pure desire!
The Sad Spring
© Katharine Tynan
The Spring weeps, she is forlorn;
Well that she may weep, alas!
Now that many babes are born
Whose dear fathers lie in grass.
The Stars.
© Arthur Henry Adams
THE terrible tranquillity of space!
My soul shrinks back in sudden doubt. I fear
The myriad eyes that through the ether peer,
And chill the arrogance that dared to trace
The Trail-Makers
© Henry Herbert Knibbs
North and west along the coast among the misty islands,
Sullen in the grip of night and smiling in the day:
Truth
© John Kenyon
"Truth may lie fossil in some cave, no doubt;
But 'twere a mad success to win her out." Rhymed Plea for Tolerance.
The Broken Chords
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
LIKE a worn wind-harp on a barren lea,
Unstirred by subtle breathings of the sea,
Though sweet south-breezes swell the floodtide's flow,
The lyric power in this worn heart of mine
The Little Velvet Suit
© Edgar Albert Guest
Last night I got to thinkin' of the pleasant long ago,
When I still had on knee breeches, an' I wore a flowing bow,
An' my Sunday suit was velvet. Ma an' Pa thought it was fine,
But I know I didn't like it-either velvet or design;
It was far too girlish for me, for I wanted something rough
Like what other boys were wearing, but Ma wouldn't buy such stuff.
