Poems begining by T
/ page 227 of 916 /
The Defence of Lucknow
© Alfred Tennyson
I
BANNER of England, not for a season, O banner of Britain, hast thou
The Seeker
© Roderic Quinn
GOOD People, by your fires to-night
Sit close and praise the red, red wood!
The wind is cold, the moon is white;
With me who wander 'tis not well; it is not well, but God is good.
The Delectable Day
© Charles Kingsley
The boy on the famous gray pony,
Just bidding good-bye at the door,
Plucking up maiden heart for the fences
Where his brother won honour of yore.
The Deserted House
© Alfred Tennyson
Life and Thought have gone away
Side by side,
Leaving door and windows wide.
Careless tenants they!
The Ballad Of The Thoughtless Waiter
© Franklin Pierce Adams
I saw him lying cold and dead
Who yesterday was whole.
"Why," I inquired, "hath he expired?
And why hath fled his soul?
Thou art not friendly sleep that hath delayed
© Adelaide Crapsey
The long night through and still at dawn doth keep
Estranged from eyes that very weariness
The Dark Angel
© Lionel Pigot Johnson
DARK Angel, with thine aching lust
To rid the world of penitence:
Malicious Angel, who still dost
My soul such subtile violence!
To A Baby Born Without Limbs
© Kingsley Amis
This is just to show you whose boss around here.
Itll keep you on your toes, so to speak,
Make you put your best foot forward, so to speak,
And give you something to turn your hand to, so to speak.
The Black Shawl
© Alexander Pushkin
As of senses bereft, at a black shawl I stare,
And my chill heart is tortured with deadly despair.
The Lady, the Knight, and the Friar
© Thomas Love Peacock
O cavalier! what dost thou here,
Thy tuneful vigils keeping;
While the northern star looks cold from far
And half the world is sleeping?
The Comedian
© Edgar Albert Guest
Whatever the task and whatever the risk, wherever
the flag's in air,
The Maid Vor My Bride
© William Barnes
Ah! don't tell o' maïdens! the woone vor my bride
Is little lik' too many maïdens bezide,--
Not brantèn, nor spitevul, nor wild; she've a mind
To think o' what's right, an' a heart to be kind.
The Sparrow
© George MacDonald
O Lord, I cannot but believe
The birds do sing thy praises then, when they sing to one another,
And they are lying seed-sown land when the winter makes them grieve,
Their little bosoms breeding songs for the summer to unsmother!
The Exiles' Line
© Rudyard Kipling
Twelve knots an hour, be they more or less -
Oh slothful mother of much idleness,
Whom neither rivals spur nor contracts speed!
Nay, bear us gently! Wherefore need we press?
To A Young Friend, On His Arriving At Cambridge Wet, When No Rain Had Fallen There
© William Cowper
If Gideon's fleece, which drenched with dew he found,
White moisture none refreshed the herbs around,
Might fitly represent the Church, endowed
With heavenly gifts to heathens not allowed;
Touch the Sleeping Strings Again
© Henry Clay Work
Touch the sleeping strings and
tell me, tell me whether,
Thence comes music sweet and low:
Did not we walk some shore together
Beyond the sea of Long Ago?
