Poems begining by T
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The Love Sonnets Of Proteus. Part IV: Vita Nova: XCVI
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
ON THE SHORTNESS OF TIME
If I could live without the thought of death,
Forgetful of time's waste, the soul's decay,
I would not ask for other joy than breath
The World Is Too Much With Us
© William Wordsworth
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
The Great Chance
© Katharine Tynan
NOW strikes the hour upon the clock
The black sheep may rebuild the years
May lift the father's pride he broke
And wipe away his mother's tears.
The Will To Live
© Edith Nesbit
Not to desire, to admit, to adore,
Casting the robe of the soul that you wore
Just as the soul casts the body's robe down.
This is man's destiny, this is man's crown.
This is the splendour, the end of the feast;
This is the light of the Star in the East.
The True Heaven
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
THE bliss for which our spirits pine,
That bliss we feel shall yet be given,
Somehow, in some far realm divine,
Some marvellous state we call a heaven.
The Fallen Leaves
© Caroline Norton
I.
WE stand among the fallen leaves,
Young children at our play,
And laugh to see the yellow things
The Unhappy Lot Of Mr. Knott
© James Russell Lowell
My worthy friend, A. Gordon Knott,
From business snug withdrawn,
Was much contented with a lot
That would contain a Tudor cot
'Twixt twelve feet square of garden-plot,
And twelve feet more of lawn.
The Lovers Of Marchaid
© Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
Dominic came riding down, sworded, straight and splendid,
Drave his hilt against her door, flung a golden chain.
Said: "I'll teach your lips a song sweet as his that's ended,
Ere the white rose call the bee, the almond flower again."
The Old Flame
© Robert Lowell
My old flame, my wife!
Remember our lists of birds?
One morning last summer, I drove
by our house in Maine. It was still
on top of its hill -
Trafalgar Square
© Robert Laurence Binyon
Slowly the dawn a magic paleness drew
From windows dim; the Pillar high in air
Over dark statues and dumb fountains, threw
A shadow on the solitary square.
The Sun Has Set
© Emily Jane Brontë
The sun has set, and the long grass now
Waves dreamily in the evening wind;
And the wild bird has flown from that old gray stone
In some warm nook a couch to find.
To My God
© George MacDonald
Oh how oft I wake and find
I have been forgetting thee!
I am never from thy mind:
Thou it is that wakest me.
To The Eastern Shore
© Paul Laurence Dunbar
I'S feelin' kin' o' lonesome in my little room to-night,
An' my min's done los' de minutes an' de miles,
The Murdered Lover
© Paul Laurence Dunbar
Say a mass for my soul's repose, my brother,
Say a mass for my soul's repose, I need it,
Lovingly lived we, the sons of one mother,
Mine was the sin, but I pray you not heed it.
The Ministers Daughter
© John Greenleaf Whittier
In the minister's morning sermon
He had told of the primal fall,
And how thenceforth the wrath of God
Rested on each and all.
To a Maniac
© Amelia Opie
There was a time, poor phrensied maid,
When I could o'er thy grief have mourned,
And still with tears the tale repaid
Of sense by sorrow's sway o'erturned.
The High Road In Winter
© Alexander Pushkin
Between the rolling vapours
The moon glides soft and bright;
Across the dreary fallows
She casts a mournful light.
To Jane: The Recollection
© Percy Bysshe Shelley
I.
Now the last day of many days,
All beautiful and bright as thou,
The loveliest and the last, is dead,
