Poems begining by T
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The Village Girl And Her High-Born Suitor
© Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
O maiden, peerless, come dwell with me,
And bright shall I render thy destiny:
Thou shalt leave thy cot by the green hillside,
To dwell in a palace home of pride,
Where crowding menials, with lowly mien,
Shall attend each wish of their lovely queen.
To His Excellency The Lord Carteret.
© Mary Barber
Why is he hid, who, with such matchloss Art,
Calls forth the Graces that adorn your Heart?
True Poets in their deathless Lays should live,
And share that Immortality they give.
The Origin Of Death
© Anonymous
In the Day ere Man came,
In the Morning of Life,
They came together
The Father, the Mother,
Debating.
To S. McK.
© Madison Julius Cawein
The fine Falernian or the ray
Of fiery Cæcuban, while gay
We heard Bacchantes shout and yell,
Filled full of Bacchus, and so fell
To dreaming of some Lydia;
Shall we forget?
The Princess: A Medley: Home they Brought her Warrior Dead
© Alfred Tennyson
Rose a nurse of ninety years,
Set his child upon her knee-
Like summer tempest came her tears-
"Sweet my child, I live for thee."
The Morning Visit
© Oliver Wendell Holmes
The morning visit,--not till sickness falls
In the charmed circles of your own safe walls;
Till fever's throb and pain's relentless rack
Stretch you all helpless on your aching back;
Not till you play the patient in your turn,
The morning visit's mystery shall you learn.
The Chimera: Notre-Dame
© Arthur Symons
The Chimera created by the Eternal Hours,
Seized by the perverse passion of Rabelais,
The Princess: A Medley: O Swallow
© Alfred Tennyson
O were I thou that she might take me in,
And lay me on her bosom, and her heart
Would rock the snowy cradle till I died.
To The British Channel
© Robert Bloomfield
Roll, roll thy white waves, and enveloped in foam,
Pour thy tides round the echoing shore;
Thou guard of Old Englandmy country, my home!
And my soul shall rejoice in the roar!
The Man To Follow
© William Henry Ogilvie
Apart from the crowd with its banter and mirth,
Sitting loose on his mare with an eye to the whins,
The Author Upon Himself
© Jonathan Swift
By an old pursued,
A crazy prelate, and a royal prude;
By dull divines, who look with envious eyes
On ev'ry genius that attempts to rise;
The Face
© Hilaire Belloc
A face Sir Joshua might have painted! Yea:
Sir Joshua painted anything for pay . . .
And after all you're painted every day.
The Village Beauty
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
THE glowing tints of a tropic eve,
Burn on her radiant cheek,
And we know that her voice is rich and low,
Though we never have heard her speak;
The Wind didn't come from the Orchardtoday
© Emily Dickinson
The Wind didn't come from the Orchardtoday
Further than that
Nor stop to play with the Hay
Nor joggle a Hat
He's a transitive fellowvery
Rely on that
The Aungeles Songe In The Feste Of The Epiphanie Of Oure lord.
© Thomas Hoccleve
HOnured be this blissed holy festë day In worshippe of the sweet[ë] welle of liffe,
With alle the ioyes & mirthë þat we may,for Crist, the kirke hath chosë to his wiffe;And fynally abated is þat striffe, Þat him betwyn, & man, hath longë be;Honured be this blessed Trinite!
The Botanic Garden (Part VI)
© Erasmus Darwin
"Born in yon blaze of orient sky,
"Sweet MAY! thy radiant form unfold;
"Unclose thy blue voluptuous eye,
"And wave thy shadowy locks of gold.
The Trash Can
© Charles Bukowski
there is a trash can on this
computer.
I just moved the poems
over
and dropped them into
the trash can.
The Ghetto
© Lola Ridge
Cool, inaccessible air
Is floating in velvety blackness shot with steel-blue lights,
But no breath stirs the heat
Leaning its ponderous bulk upon the Ghetto
And most on Hester street…
The Elixir
© Emma Lazarus
"Oh brew me a potion strong and good!
One golden drop in his wine
Shall charm his sense and fire his blood,
And bend his will to mine."
