Poems begining by T
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To Sir Henry Wotton [Sir, more than kisses, letters mingle souls...]
© John Donne
Sir, more than kisses, letters mingle souls;For thus, friends absent speak
To Sir Henry Wotton [Here's no more news, than virtue: I may as well...]
© John Donne
Here's no more news, than virtue: I may as wellTell you Calais, or Saint Michael's tales, as tellThat vice doth here habitually dwell.
To Mr. T. W. [Pregnant again with th'old twins, Hope and Fear...]
© John Donne
Pregnant again with th' old twins, Hope and Fear,Oft have I asked for thee, both how and whereThou wert, and what my hopes of letters were;
To Mr. S. B.
© John Donne
O thou which to search out the secret parts Of the India, or rather Paradise Of knowledge, hast with courage and adviceLately launch'd into the vast sea of arts,Disdain not in thy constant travelling To do as other voyagers, and make Some turns into less creeks, and wisely takeFresh water at the Heliconian spring;I sing not, siren-like, to tempt; for I Am harsh; nor as those schismatics with you, Which draw all wits of good hope to their crew;But seeing in you bright sparks of poetry, I, though I brought no fuel, had desire With these articulate blasts to blow the fire
The Perfume
© John Donne
Once, and but once found in thy company,All thy suppos'd escapes are laid on me;And as a thief at bar is question'd thereBy all the men that have been robb'd that year,So am I, (by this traitorous means surpriz'd)By thy hydroptic father catechiz'd
The Liar
© John Donne
Thou in the fields walkst out thy supping hoursAnd yet thou swear'st thou hast supp'd like a king;Like Nebuchadnezar perchance with grass and flowers,A sallet worse than Spanish dieting.
The Fever
© John Donne
Oh do not die, for I shall hate All women so, when thou art gone,That thee I shall not celebrate, When I remember thou was one.
The Comparison
© John Donne
As the sweet sweat of roses in a still,As that which from chaf'd musk cat's pores doth trill,As the almighty balm of th' early east,Such are the sweat drops of my mistress' breast;And on her neck her skin such lustre sets,They seem no sweat drops, but pearl carcanets
The Bracelet
© John Donne
Not that in colour it was like thy hair,For armlets of that thou mayst let me wear;Nor that thy hand is oft embrac'd and kiss'd,For so it had that good which oft I miss'd;Not for that seely old morality,That as those links are tied our love should be;Nor for the luck sake; but the bitter cost
The Autumnal
© John Donne
No spring, nor summer beauty hath such graceAs I have seen in one autumnal face;Young beauties force our love, and that's a rape;This doth but counsel, yet you cannot scape
The Anagram
© John Donne
Marry, and love thy Flavia, for sheHath all things, whereby others beauteous be;For, though her eyes be small, her mouth is great;Though they be ivory, yet her teeth be jet;Though they be dim, yet she is light enough;And though her harsh hair fall, her skin is tough;What though her cheeks be yellow, her hair's red,Give her thine, and she hath a maidenhead
The Footman: An Epistle to my Friend Mr. Wright
© Dodsley Robert
Dear FRIEND,Since I am now at leisure,And in the Country taking Pleasure,If it be worth your while to hearA silly Footman's Business there,I'll try to tell, in easy Rhyme,How I in London spend my Time
To My Spinning-Wheel
© Dixon Charlotte Eliza
I love thee well my little wheel,And why I love thee I can tell:When tir'd of folly, shew and noise,Of feeling griefs, and feigning joys,Of visiting, and company,And all that's called society,I sought in solitude and peace,To sooth a mind too ill at ease,Thou kindly then thy aid didst lend,I found in thee almost a friend
The Snake
© Emily Dickinson
A narrow fellow in the grassOccasionally rides;You may have met him,--did you not,His notice sudden is.
The bustle in the house (1078)
© Emily Dickinson
The bustle in a houseThe morning after deathIs solemnest of industriesEnacted upon earth.
Too Much has Resisted Us
© Pier Giorgio Di Cicco
i have been thinking of the long arms of peasant girls,of cold streams where the sun washes up on the sand.of far-away places, things i might love,
That First Year
© Pier Giorgio Di Cicco
i wrote poems mainly that first year,picking garbage, doing dishes, humblingmyself among men who doubted me for having gottenthe world's publicity; what did i want with them, anyway?but after a year they saw my touch and needed an armaround them; men without women can use an italiannow and again to laugh christ off the cross and make him dance;make the devil look a bit foolish
