Poems begining by T
/ page 208 of 916 /
Testamentum Amoris
© Robert Laurence Binyon
I cannot raise my eyelids up from sleep,
But I am visited with thoughts of you;
Slumber has no refreshment half so deep
As the sweet morn, that wakes my heart anew.
The Woman Who Went To Hell [An Irish Legend]
© Dora Sigerson Shorter
Young Dermod stood by his mother's side,
And he spake right stern and cold;
Now, why do you weep and wail," he said,
And joy from my bride withhold ?
To The River Arve
© William Cullen Bryant
Not from the sands or cloven rocks,
Thou rapid Arve! thy waters flow;
The Wide Ocean
© Pablo Neruda
Only a salt kiss remains of the drowned arm,
that lifts a spray: a humid scent,
of the damp flower, is left,
from the bodies of men. Your energies
form, in a trickle that is not spent,
form, in retreat into silence.
The Wild Hunt
© Johannes Carsten Hauch
When they thought that Denmark's king
Soundly in the graveyard slumbered,
Words incredible, unnumbered,
Through the land crept whispering.
The Apple Tree
© Edgar Albert Guest
When an apple tree is ready
for the world to come and eat,
There isn't any structure
in the land that's "got it beat."
The Panama Canal
© Edgar Albert Guest
ABOVE it flies the flag we love,
Within it is the blood we gave;
The Three Sorts of Friends (fragment)
© Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Though friendships differ endless in degree,
The sorts, methinks, may be reduced to three.
Ac quaintance many, and Con quaintance few;
But for In quaintance I know only two--
The friend I've mourned with, and the maid I woo!
The Wind Witch
© Madison Julius Cawein
THE wind that met her in the park,
Came hurrying to my side
It ran to me, it leapt to me,
And nowhere would abide.
Two Figures in Dense Violet Light
© Wallace Stevens
I had as lief be embraced by the portier of the hotel
As to get no more from the moonlight
Than your moist hand.
The Guest House
© Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
As an unexpected visitor.
The Bourne
© Christina Georgina Rossetti
Underneath the growing grass,
Underneath the living flowers,
Deeper than the sound of showers:
There we shall not count the hours
By the shadows as they pass.
To Mr. Edward Howard on His New Utopia
© Charles Sackville
Thou damn'd antipodes to common sense!
Thou foil to Flecknoe! Prithee tell from whence
The Voice of the Swamp Oak
© Charles Harpur
Even when the waveless air
May only stir the lightest leaf,
A lowly voice keeps moaning there
Wordless oracles of grief.
The Gods Are Dead
© William Ernest Henley
The gods are dead? Perhaps they are! Who knows?
Living at least in Lempriere undeleted,
The wise, the fair, the awful, the jocose,
Are one and all. I like to think, retreated
In some still land of lilacs and the rose.
