Poems begining by T
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The Skeleton Witness
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
ROOTED in soil dull as a dead man's eye,
Dank with decay, yon ghastly oak aspires,
As if in mockery, to the alien sky,
Frowning afar through clouded sunset fires.
The Challenge. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The Third)
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
I have a vague remembrance
Of a story, that is told
In some ancient Spanish legend
Or chronicle of old.
The Last Banquet Of Antony And Cleopatra
© Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Thy foes had girt thee with their dead array,
O stately Alexandra! - yet the sound
The Creole Girl; Or, The Physicians Story
© Caroline Norton
SHE came to England from the island clime
Which lies beyond the far Atlantic wave;
She died in early youth--before her time--
"Peace to her broken heart, and virgin grave!"
II.
The Blind Man Of Jericho
© Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
He sat by the dusty way-side,
With weary, hopeless mien,
On his furrowed brow the traces
Of care and want were seen;
With outstretched hand and with bowed-down head
He asked the passers-by for bread.
The First Kiss Of Love
© George Gordon Byron
Away with your fictions of flimsy romance;
Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove!
Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance,
Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of love.
The Well-Dressed Children
© Robert Graves
Here's flowery taffeta for Mary's new gown:
Here's black velvet, all the rage, for Dick's birthday coat.
Pearly buttons for you, Mary, all the way down,
Lace ruffles, Dick, for you; you'll be a man of note.
The King Of Bombaria
© Sukumar Ray
… The King's old aunt- an autocrat-
Hits pumpkins with her cricket bat
While Uncle loves to dance Mazurkas
Wearing garlands strung with hookaha.
All of this, though mighty queer,
Is natural in Bombaria.
The Evening Of The Holiday
© Giacomo Leopardi
The night is mild and clear, and without wind,
And o'er the roofs, and o'er the gardens round
Thompson Of Angels
© Francis Bret Harte
It is the story of Thompson--of Thompson, the hero of Angels.
Frequently drunk was Thompson, but always polite to the stranger;
Light and free was the touch of Thompson upon his revolver;
Great the mortality incident on that lightness and freedom.
The First Of The Angels
© Denis Florence MacCarthy
Hush! hush! through the azure expanse of the sky
Comes a low, gentle sound, 'twixt a laugh and a sigh;
And I rise from my writing, and look up on high,
And I kneel, for the first of God's angels is nigh!
The Artist
© Roderic Quinn
THE year has turned the corner,
Cold June is with the dead,
And Spring, the singing artist,
Is mixing gold and red.
The Morning Dream, A Ballad. To The Tune Of 'Tweed Side.'
© William Cowper
'Twas in the glad season of spring,
Asleep at the dawn of the day,
They Choose Not Ill Their Lot Who Choose
© John Kenyon
They choose not ill their lot who choose
All quietly to live and die,
The Age Of Gold
© Madison Julius Cawein
The clouds that tower in storm, that beat
Arterial thunder in their veins;
The wildflowers lifting, shyly sweet,
Their perfect faces from the plains,-
All high, all lowly things of Earth
For no vague end have had their birth.
The Old Dutch Oven
© Arthur Chapman
Some sigh for cooks of boyhood days, but none of them for me;
One roundup cook was best of all t was with the X-Bar-T.
And when we heard the grub-pile call at morning, noon, and night,
The old Dutch oven never failed to cook the things just right.
The Palace of Art
© Alfred Tennyson
And "while the world runs round and round," I said,
"Reign thou apart, a quiet king,
Still as, while Saturn whirls, his steadfast shade
Sleeps on his luminous ring."
To A Picture
© Frances Anne Kemble
Oh, serious eyes! how is it that the light,
The burning rays, that mine pour into ye,
Three (O'clock) in the Morning
© Judith Viorst
At three in the morning I used to be sleeping an untroubled
sleep in my bed.
But lately at three in the morning I'm tossing and turning,
Awakened by hypochondria, and gas, and nameless dread,
Whose name I've been learning. (worry)
