Poems begining by T

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The Prayer

© Dora Sigerson Shorter

"Many worlds have I made," said the Good God,

"But this is best of all,"

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The Shepherd Lady

© Jean Ingelow

Who pipes upon the long green hill,
 Where meadow grass is deep?
The white lamb bleats but followeth on-
 Follow the clean white sheep.
The dear white lady in yon high tower,
 She hearkeneth in her sleep.

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The Coo Of The Cushat

© Ada Cambridge

Over the smooth lawns, broider'd with violets,
 Over the hedges of snow-white thorn,
Over the billowy, pink apple-blossoms,
 The musical coo of the cushat is borne.

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To Santa Claus

© James Whitcomb Riley

Most tangible of all the gods that be,
O Santa Claus-- our own since Infancy!
As first we scampered to thee-- now, as then,
Take us as children to thy heart again.

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To A Friend Studying German

© Charles Godfrey Leland

VILL'ST dou learn die Deutsche Sprache?
Denn set it on your card,
Dat all the nouns have shenders,
Und de shenders all are hard.

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The Finding Of The Lyre

© James Russell Lowell

There lay upon the ocean's shore

What once a tortoise served to cover;

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The Garden of Sin

© Robert Fuller Murray

I know the garden-close of sin,
The cloying fruits, the noxious flowers,
I long have roamed the walks and bowers,
Desiring what no man shall win:

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The Looking-Glass

© Paul Laurence Dunbar

DINAH stan' befo' de glass,

Lookin' moughty neat,

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The Man-O-War Hawk

© Herman Melville

Yon black man-of-war-hawk that wheels in

  the light

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The Fire

© Edith Nesbit

I was picking raspberries, my head was in the canes,

And he came behind and kissed me, and I smacked him for his pains.

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To William H. Seward

© John Greenleaf Whittier

STATESMAN, I thank thee! and, if yet dissent
Mingles, reluctant, with my large content,
I cannot censure what was nobly meant.
But, while constrained to hold even Union less

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Trinitie Sunday

© George Herbert

Lord, who hast formed me out of mud,
  And hast redeemed me through thy bloud,
  And sanctified me to do good;

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The Frosting Dish

© Edgar Albert Guest


When I was just a little lad

Not more than eight or nine,

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The Sleepless Jesus

© George MacDonald

'Tis time to sleep, my little boy:

Why gaze thy bright eyes so?

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The Hoosier

© Hew Ainslie

We lads that live up in the nobs,

Tho' our manners might yet bear a rubbing,

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The Sick Man to Health

© Arthur Symons

I

The eyes, that, having seen the saintly light

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The Papal Benediction, From St. Peter’s

© Richard Monckton Milnes

Higher than ever lifted into space,
Rises the sove'ran dome,--
Into the Colonnade's immense embrace
Flows all the life of Rome;

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To Sergei Esenin

© Vladimir Mayakovsky

You have passed, as they say, into worlds elsewhere.
Emptiness...
Fly, cutting your way into starry dubiety.
No advances, no pubs for you there.

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The Return

© Tadeusz Ròzewicz

Suddenly the window will open
and Mother will call
it's time to come in

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The Child's Grave

© Edmund Blunden

  I came to the churchyard where pretty Joy lies
  On a morning in April, a rare sunny day;
  Such bloom rose around, and so many birds' cries
  That I sang for delight as I followed the way.