Poems begining by T
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The Song Of Iron
© Lola Ridge
Not yet hast Thou sounded
Thy clangorous music,
Whose strings are under the mountains…
Not yet hast Thou spoken
The blooded, implacable Word…
The Poor, Poor Country
© John Shaw Neilson
Oh 'twas a poor country, in Autumn it was bare,
The only green was the cutting grass and the sheep found little there.
Oh, the thin wheat and the brown oats were never two foot high,
But down in the poor country no pauper was I.
The Faerie Queene, Book I, Canto IV
© Edmund Spenser
To sinfull house of Pride, Duessa
guides the faithfull knight,
Where brothers death to wreak Sansjoy
doth chalenge him to fight.
"The Old Man Of The Sea."
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
GRIEVOUS, in sooth, was luckless Sindbad's plight,
Saddled with that foul monster of the sea;
But who of some soul-harrowing weight is free?
And though we veil our woe from public sight,
The Last Review
© Henry Lawson
Turn the light down, nurse, and leave me, while I hold my last review,
For the Bush is slipping from me, and the town is going too:
Draw the blinds, the streets are lighted, and I hear the tramp of feet
And Im weary, very weary, of the Faces in the Street.
The Straight Goer
© William Henry Ogilvie
The ringing, hanging hen-roost thief-we have no use for him;
When they tear him up and eat him not a single eye grows dim;
The Veil
© Victor Marie Hugo
THE SISTER
Why, brother, why upon me stare?
Why do your brows so fiercely lower?
Your eyes like funeral torches glare,
The Heart Of Spring
© Madison Julius Cawein
Whiten, O whiten, ye clouds of fleece!
Whiten like lilies floating above,
Blown wild about like a flock of white geese!
But never, O never; so cease! so cease!
Never as white as the throat of my love!
The Old Mans Love
© Victor Marie Hugo
DONNA SOL. My fate may be more to precede than follow.
My lord, it is no reason for long life
That we are young! Alas! I have seen too oft
The old clamped firm to life, the young torn thence;
And the lids close as sudden o'er their eyes
As gravestones sealing up the sepulchre.
Tear
© Arthur Rimbaud
Far away from birds and herds and village girls,
I was drinking, kneeling down in some heather
Surrounded by soft hazel copses,
In an afternoon mist, warm and green.
The Only Son
© Katharine Tynan
His mother died last year and yet
She wearied Heaven with fear and fret,
Wanting the son she left behind,
And God was patient, being kind.
The Love Sonnets Of Proteus. Part III: Gods And False Gods: LVIII
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
TO ONE ON HER WASTE OF TIME
Why practise, love, this small economy
Of your heart's favours? Can you keep a kiss
To be enjoyed in age? And would the free
The Outlaw
© Charles Kingsley
Oh, I wadna be a yeoman, mither, to follow my father's trade,
To bow my back in miry banks, at pleugh and hoe and spade.
Stinting wife, and bairns, and kye, to fat some courtier lord,-
Let them die o' rent wha like, mither, and I'll die by sword.
The Christening
© Caroline Norton
So let it be! and when the noble head
Of thy true-hearted father, babe beloved,
Now glossy dark, is silver-gray instead,
And thy young birth-day far away removed;
Still may'st thou be a comfort and a joy,--
Still welcome as this day, unconscious boy!
The Song Of Hiawatha XXI: The White Man's Foot
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
In his lodge beside a river,
Close beside a frozen river,
