Poems begining by T
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The Brus Book XV
© John Barbour
[The Scots win a great battle at Connor]
Quhen thai within has sene sua slayn
Twelfth Sunday After Trinity
© John Keble
The Son of God in doing good
Was fain to look to Heaven and sigh:
The Death Of Admiral Blake
© Sir Henry Newbolt
Laden with spoil of the South, fulfilled with the glory of achievement,
And freshly crowned with never-dying fame,
Sweeping by shores where the names are the names of the victories of England,
Across the Bay the squadron homeward came.
Theory
© Wallace Stevens
Women understand this.
One is not duchess
A hundred yards from a carriage.
These, then are portraits:
A black vestibule;
A high bed sheltered by curtains.
The Colonists
© Katharine Tynan
To men now of her blood and race
England's a little garden place,
Dear as a woman is, and she
The Queen of every loyalty.
The Artist
© Madison Julius Cawein
In story books, when I was very young,
I knew you first, one of the Fairy Race;
The Voyagers
© Roderic Quinn
HOW was it with the Genoese,
What feeling filled his heaving breast,
When far across the morning seas
He saw the island of his quest?
Tirocinium; or, a Review of Schools
© William Cowper
It is not from his form, in which we trace
Strength join'd with beauty, dignity with grace,
The Home
© Rabindranath Tagore
I paced alone on the road across the field while the sunset was
hiding its last gold like a miser.
The Camp
© Mary Darby Robinson
Tents, marquees, and baggage waggons;
Suttling-houses, beer in flagons;
The Mask Of Anarchy
© Percy Bysshe Shelley
I.
As I lay asleep in Italy
There came a voice from over the Sea,
And with great power it forth led me
To walk in the visions of Poesy.
The Three Pilgrims
© Archibald Lampman
In days, when the fruit of men's labour was sparing,
And hearts were weary and nigh to break,
A sweet grave man with a beautiful bearing
Came to us once in the fields and spake.
The Death of Pompey the Great
© Alaric Alexander Watts
States vanish, ages fly;
But leave one task unchangedâto suffer and to die. ~ HEMANS.
The Dead House
© James Russell Lowell
Here once my step was quickened,
Here beckoned the opening door,
And welcome thrilled from the threshold
To the foot it had known before.
The Two Angels
© John Greenleaf Whittier
God called the nearest angels who dwell with Him above:
The tenderest one was Pity, the dearest one was Love.
