Poems begining by T
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To A Picture Of Eleonora Duse As "Francesca da Rimini "
© Sara Teasdale
Oh flower-sweet face and bended flower-like head!
Oh violet whose purple cannot pale,
Or forest fragrance ever faint or fail,
Or breath and beauty pass among the dead!
The House Of Dust: Part 03: 04:
© Conrad Aiken
She played this tune. And in the middle of it
Abruptly broke it off, letting her hands
Fall in her lap. She sat there so a moment,
With shoulders drooped, then lifted up a rose,
One great white rose, wide opened like a lotos,
And pressed it to her cheek, and closed her eyes.
The Foolish Elm
© Wilcox Ella Wheeler
The bold young Autumn came riding along
One day where an elm-tree grew.
To a Little Maid - by a Politician
© William Schwenck Gilbert
Come with me, little maid,
Nay, shrink not, thus afraid -
The House Of Life
© Dante Gabriel Rossetti
A Sonnet is a moment's monument,
Memorial from the Soul's eternity
The sounds that slip
© Ava
A soft tress on the summit of a quill
The she the her
Troubled by the smirk of
A lipless apparatus
The Triumphs Of Philamore And Amoret. To The Noblest Of Our
© Richard Lovelace
Sir, your sad absence I complain, as earth
Her long-hid spring, that gave her verdures birth,
Who now her cheerful aromatick head
Shrinks in her cold and dismal widow'd bed;
Whilst the false sun her lover doth him move
Below, and to th' antipodes make love.
The Old Horse In The City
© Vachel Lindsay
The moons a peck of corn. It lies
Heaped up for me to eat.
I wish that I might climb the path
And taste that supper sweet.
The Danish Boy
© William Wordsworth
I
BETWEEN two sister moorland rills
There is a spot that seems to lie
Sacred to flowerets of the hills,
The Spirit Of The Forest Spring
© Madison Julius Cawein
Over the rocks she trails her locks,
Her mossy locks that drip, drip, drip:
The Old Love
© Katharine Tynan
Out of my door I step into
The country, all her scent and dew,
Nor travel there by a hard road,
Dusty and far from my abode.
The Spirit Of Discovery By Sea - Book The Fourth
© William Lisle Bowles
O'er my poor ANNA'S lowly grave
No dirge shall sound, no knell shall ring;
But angels, as the high pines wave,
Their half-heard "Miserere" sing.
To The Virgin Mary
© Mary Hannay Foott
Oh wisely was it that He chose,
Who the unwritten future reads,
To teach the after-world, through thee,
What cherishers Messiah needs.
Two
© Madison Julius Cawein
With her soft face half turned to me,
Like an arrested moonbeam, she
Stood in the cirque of that deep tree.
The Headless Trooper.
© James Brunton Stephens
NO; not another step, for all
The troopers out of hell!
