Poems begining by T

The Great Tyrannosaurus

© Guiterman Arthur

The Great Tyrannosaurus Lived centuries ago;Through marshes wet and porous He rambled to and fro.

The Years

© Greene Richard

For Cyril Pine

To Arthur Edmonds

© Gray John Henry

Geranium, houseleek, laid in oblong bedsOn the trim grass. The daisies' leprous stainIs fresh. Each night the daisies burst again,Though every day the gardener crops their heads.

The Flying Fish

© Gray John Henry

Magnae Deus potentiaequi fertili natos aquapartim relinquis gurgitipartim levas in aera.

The Kilkenny Cats

© Graves Alfred Perceval

In the dacent ould days Before stockings or staysWere invented, or breeches, top-boots and top-hats, You'd search the whole sphere From Cape Horn to Cape ClearAnd never come near to the likes of our Cats Och, tunder! och, tunder! You'd wink wid the wonderTo see them keep under the mice and the rats; And go wild for half shares In the phisants and haresThey pull'd up the backstairs to provision our PatsOch! the Cats of Kilkenny, Kilkenny's wild Cats!

But the shame and the sin Of the Game Laws came in,Wid the gun and the gin of the landlord canats; And the whole box and dice Of the rats and the miceMade off in a trice from our famishing Cats

Twilight

© Gerald Gould

The fields grow dim; the sombre millsStand crucified against the skies;Blue in the distance riseThe ancient hills.

Thirty-Six Ways of Looking at Toronto Ontario

© Gotlieb Phyllis

##.see my house, its angled street,east, north, west, south,southeast, northwest, there areno parking placeshere

The Deserted Village, A Poem

© Oliver Goldsmith

Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain,Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd:Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,Seats of my youth, when every sport could please,How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green,Where humble happiness endear'd each scene!How often have I paus'd on every charm,The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm,The never-failing brook, the busy mill,The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill,The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,For talking age and whisp'ring lovers made!How often have I blest the coming day,When toil remitting lent its turn to play,And all the village train, from labour free,Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree;While many a pastime circled in the shade,The young contending as the old survey'd;And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground,And sleights of art and feats of strength went round;And still, as each repeated pleasure tir'd,Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd;The dancing pair that simply sought renownBy holding out to tire each other down:The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,While secret laughter titter'd round the place;The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love,The matron's glance that would those looks reprove:These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like theseWith sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please:These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed,These were thy charms--but all these charms are fled

The Rising Village

© Oliver Goldsmith

Thou dear companion of my early years,Partner of all my boyish hopes and fears,To whom I oft addressed the youthful strain,And sought no other praise than thine to gain;Who oft hast bid me emulate his fameWhose genius formed the glory of our name;Say, when thou canst, in manhood's ripened age,With judgment scan the more aspiring page,Wilt thou accept this tribute of my lay,By far too small thy fondness to repay?Say, dearest Brother, wilt thou now excuseThis bolder flight of my adventurous muse? If, then, adown your cheek a tear should flowFor Auburn's Village, and its speechless woe;If, while you weep, you think the

To the Young Wife

© Gilman Charlotte Anna Perkins

Are you content, you pretty three-years' wife? Are you content and satisfied to live On what your loving husband loves to give, And give to him your life?

To The Indifferent Women

© Gilman Charlotte Anna Perkins

You who are happy in a thousand homes,Or overworked therein, to a dumb peace;Whose souls are wholly centered in the lifeOf that small group you personally love;Who told you that you need not know or careAbout the sin and sorrow of the world?

Do you believe the sorrow of the worldDoes not concern you in your little homes? --That you are licensed to avoid the careAnd toil for human progress, human peace,And the enlargement of our power of loveUntil it covers every field of life?

The one first duty of all human lifeIs to promote the progress of the worldIn righteousness, in wisdom, truth and love;And you ignore it, hidden in your homes,Content to keep them in uncertain peace,Content to leave all else without your care

The Housewife

© Gilman Charlotte Anna Perkins

Here is the House to hold me -- cradle of all the race;Here is my lord and my love, here are my children dear --Here is the House enclosing, the dear-loved dwelling place;Why should I ever weary for aught that I find not here?

Here for the hours of the day and the hours of the night;Bound with the bands of Duty, rivetted tight;Duty older than Adam -- Duty that sawAcceptance utter and hopeless in the eyes of the serving squaw

The French Horn

© Gilbert Ruth

Cello or violin --The lament of singing wood --This I know, for thisI have heard and understood.

To a Dead Crow

© Ghose Kasiprasad

Gay minstrel of the Indian clime!How oft at morning's rosy primeWhen thou didst sing in caw, caw numbers,Vexed I've awoke from my sweet slumbers,And to avoid that hateful sound,That plagues a head howe'er profound,Have walked out in my garden, whereBeside the tank, in many a square,Sweet lilies, jasmines, roses bloom,Far from those trees within whose gloomOf foliage thick, thou hadst thy nestFrom daily toil at night to rest

The War of the Ghosts

© William Gay

Three Ghosts that haunt me have I, Three Ghosts in my soul that fight,Three grandsire Ghosts in my soul, That haunt me by day and by night.

To a Nurse

© William Gay

As dropping moisture on December flowers, As sunlight breaking o'er the August plain,As shines the Virgin on the midnight hours, So is thy presence at the bed of pain;And as the flowers revive to bloom more fair, And o'er the plain the wattles burst in fire,And midnight hours to morn at last repair, So hope and life thy minist'rings inspire;And though for me there's but the life and hope That lie abundant past the gates of Death,Yet thither as with feeble steps I grope Thy friendly arm assists my failing breath;Nor will I deem of Providence the worseWho sent me pain to send me thee for nurse

The Sorrowful Fate of Bartholomew Jones

© William Gay

Bartholemew Jones made his money in mines,And although he has left us his fame still shinesAs a man who was knowing in various lines.

The Singer

© William Gay

Nay! sing no more thy wild delusive strain(I heard them say, while I my song pursued),'Tis but the rage of thy delirious brain(I heard them say, yet still my song renewed);Nay! sing no more with reckless, idle breathOf man immortal and of life to come,For one brief moment scan the face of death,Then be thy foolish song for ever dumb;Behold the dusty ash that once was fire,And mark the summer leaf in autumn fall,Watch thou the wavering breath of man expire,And know that Death hath lordship over all(I heard them say with many a scornful word,Yet still sang on as one who nothing heard)

The Crazy World

© William Gay

The World did say to me, "My bread thou shalt not eat,I have no place for thee In house nor field nor street.

Trivia; or, the Art of Walking the Streets of London

© John Gay

Thus far the Muse has trac'd in useful laysThe proper implements for wintry ways;Has taught the walker, with judicious eyes,To read the various warnings of the skies