Poems begining by T
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The Tomb of Love
© Thomas Love Peacock
By the mossy weed-flowered column,
Where the setting moonbeam's glance
The Dowie Dens Of Yarrow
© Andrew Lang
Late at e'en, drinking the wine,
And ere they paid the lawing,
They set a combat them between,
To fight it in the dawing.
The Dream
© Giacomo Leopardi
It was the morning; through the shutters closed,
Along the balcony, the earliest rays
The Labyrinth
© Henry King
Life is a crooked Labyrinth, and we
Are daily lost in that Obliquity.
'Tis a perplexed circle, in whose round
Nothing but sorrows and new sins abound.
The Loom of Years
© Alfred Noyes
In the light of the silent stars that shine on the struggling sea,
In the weary cry of the wind and the whisper of flower and tree,
The Love Sonnets Of Proteus. Part I: To Manon: XV
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
COMPLAINING THAT HE HAD FALLEN AMONG THIEVES
Oh, Lytton, I have gambled with my soul,
And, like a spendthrift, pawned my heritage
To pitiless Jews, and paid a monstrous toll
The Village Saturday Night
© Giacomo Leopardi
The dearest day of all the week
Is this, of hope and joy so full;
To-morrow, sad and dull,
The hours will bring, for each must in his thought
His customary task-work seek.
The Monk
© Edith Nesbit
WHEN in my narrow cell I lie,
The long day's penance done at last,
I see the ghosts of days gone by,
And hear the voices of the past.
The Ballad of the "Britain's Pride"
© William Watson
It was a skipper of Lowestoft
That trawled the northern sea,
The Maranoa Drovers
© Anonymous
The night is dark and stormy, and the sky is clouded o'er;
Our horses we will mount and ride away,
To watch the squatters' cattle through the darkness of the night,
And we'll keep them on the camp till break of day.
To The Immortal Memory Of The Halibut, On Which I Dined This Day, Monday, April 26, 1784
© William Cowper
Where hast thou floated, in what seas pursued
Thy pastime? When wast thou an egg new spawned,
Lost in the immensity of ocean's waste?
Roar as they might, the overbearing winds
The Persevering Tortoise And The Pretentious Hare
© Guy Wetmore Carryl
And THE MORAL (lest you miss one)
Is: There's often time to spare,
And that races are (like this one)
Won not always by a hair.
The House Of Dust: Part 02: 11:
© Conrad Aiken
Snow falls. The sky is grey, and sullenly glares
With purple lights in the canyoned street.
The fiery sign on the dark tower wreathes and flares . . .
The trodden grass in the park is covered with white,
The streets grow silent beneath our feet . . .
The city dreams, it forgets its past to-night.
The Eyes
© Ezra Pound
Rest Master, for we be a-weary, weary
And would feel the fingers of the wind
Upon these lids that lie over us
Sodden and lead-heavy.
The Little Church
© Edgar Albert Guest
The little church of Long Ago, where as a boy I sat
With mother in the family pew and fumbled with my hat-
The Disciple
© Oscar Wilde
When Narcissus died the pool of his pleasure changed from a cup of
sweet waters into a cup of salt tears, and the Oreads came weeping
through the woodland that they might sing to the pool and give it
comfort.
The Hawthorn Bower
© John Cunningham
Palemnon, in the hawthorn bower,
With fond impatience lay,
He counted every anxious hour
That stretch'd the tedious day.
To Amanda
© James Thomson
Unless with my Amanda bless'd,
In vain I twine the woodbine bower;
Unless to deck her sweeter breast,
In vain I rear the breathing flower.
