Poems begining by T
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The Doubt of Future Foes
© Elizabeth I
The doubt of future foes exiles my present joy,And wit me warns to shun such snares as threaten mine annoy;For falsehood now doth flow, and subjects' faith doth ebb,Which should not be if reason ruled or wisdom weaved the web
The Times They Are A-Changin'
© Bob Dylan
Come gather 'round peopleWherever you roamAnd admit that the watersAround you have grownAnd accept it that soonYou'll be drenched to the bone
The Young Captive
© Toru Dutt
The budding shoot ripens unharmed by the scythe,Without fear of the press, on vine branches lithe, Through spring-tide the green clusters bloom
The Sleep of the Condor
© Toru Dutt
Beyond the steep ramparts of the high Cordilliferes,Beyond the dun fogs where the black eagle's eyrie's,Higher, far higher than the bold craters, like funnels,Whence springs out the lava from its deep boiling tunnels,With wings that hang down, jagged, red in some places,The condor looks silent o'er limitless spaces
The Broken Bell
© Toru Dutt
'Tis bitter-sweet on winter nights to note,Beside the palpitating fire reclined,The chimes, across the fogs, upon the wind
Ten Precepts from Dhammapada
© Romesh Chunder Dutt
Return Love for Hatred.1.2 Hatred lives and mortal strife;1.3Love return for bitter hatred,1.4 Hatred dies, and sweet is life! (5)
To my Honor'd Friend, Dr. Charleton
© John Dryden
The longest tyranny that ever sway'dWas that wherein our ancestors betray'dTheir free-born reason to the Stagirite,And made his torch their universal light
The Hind and the Panther: Part I
© John Dryden
A milk-white Hind, immortal and unchang'd,Fed on the lawns, and in the forest rang'd;Without unspotted, innocent within,She fear'd no danger, for she knew no sin
To Ennui
© Joseph Rodman Drake
Avaunt! arch enemy of fun, Grim nightmare of the mind;Which way great Momus! shall I run, A refuge safe to find?My puppy's dead -- Miss Rumor's breath Is stopt for lack of news,And Fitz is almost hyp'd to death, And Lang has got the blues
The Song of the Bow
© Doyle Arthur Conan
What of the bow? The bow was made in England:Of true wood, of yew-wood, The wood of English bows; So men who are free Love the old yew-treeAnd the land where the yew-tree grows.
The Guards Came Through
© Doyle Arthur Conan
Men of the Twenty-first Up by the Chalk Pit Wood,Weak with our wounds and our thirst, Wanting our sleep and our food,After a day and a night
Twicknam Garden
© John Donne
Blasted with sighs, and surrounded with tears, Hither I come to seek the spring, And at mine eyes, and at mine ears,Receive such balms as else cure every thing; But oh, self-traitor, I do bringThe spider love, which transubstantiates all, And can convert manna to gall,And that this place may thoroughly be thoughtTrue paradise, I have the serpent brought
[Tutelage]
© John Donne
Nature's lay idiot, I taught thee to love,And in that sophistry, O, thou dost proveToo subtle; fool, thou didst not understandThe mystic language of the eye nor hand;Nor couldst thou judge the difference of the airOf sighs, and say, "This lies, this sounds despair";Nor by th' eye's water cast a maladyDesperately hot, or changing feverously
To the Countess of Bedford [To have written then, when you writ, seem'd to me ...]
© John Donne
To have written then, when you writ, seem'd to meWorst of spiritual vices, simony ;And not to have written then seems little lessThan worst of civil vices, thanklessness
To the Countess of Bedford [Madam, Reason is our soul's left hand, faith her right...]
© John Donne
Madam,Reason is our soul's left hand, faith her right, By these we reach divinity, that's you;Their loves, who have the blessing of your sight, Grew from their reason, mine from fair faith grew.
