Poems begining by T
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The Book of Urizen
© William Blake
CHAPTER IIn Eternity! Unknown, unprolific,Self-clos'd, all-repelling: what demonHath form'd this abominable void,This soul-shudd'ring vacuum? Some said"It is Urizen
The Vowels
© Bithell Jethro
Ye vowels, A black, E white, I red, U green, O blue,I will reveal your latent births one of these days
The Reformer
© Binyon Heward Laurence
August from a vault of hollow brassSteep upon the sullen city glares.Yellower burns the sick and parching grass,Shivering in the breath of furnace airs.
The Arrest of Oscar Wilde at the Cadogan Hotel
© John Betjeman
He sipped at a weak hock and seltzer As he gazed at the London skiesThrough the Nottingham lace of the curtains Or was it his bees-winged eyes?
The Sparrow
© Benson Arthur Christopher
O pertest, most self-satisfied Of aught that breathes or moves,See where you sit, with head aside, To chirp your vulgar loves:Or raking in the uncleanly street You bolt your ugly meal,Undaunted by the approaching feet, The heedless splashing wheel
The Minstrel; or, The Progress of Genius
© James Beattie
THE FIRST BOOK (excerpts) The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar! Ah! who can tell how many a soul sublime Hath felt the influence of malignant star, And wag'd with Fortune an eternal war! Check'd by the scoff of Pride, by Envy's frown, And Poverty's unconquerable bar, In life's low vale remote hath pin'd aloneThen dropt into the grave, unpitied and unknown!
And yet, the languor of inglorious days Not equally oppressive is to all
The View at Gunderson's
© Beach Joseph Warren
Sitting in his rocker waiting for your tea,Gazing from his window, this is what you see:
To his Friend Master R. L., In Praise of Music and Poetry
© Richard Barnfield
If music and sweet poetry agree,As they must needs (the sister and the brother),Then must the love be great 'twixt thee and me, Because thou lov'st the one, and I the other
The Jackaw of Rheims
© Richard Harris Barham
The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair! Bishop, and abbot, and prior were there; Many a monk, and many a friar, Many a knight, and many a squire,With a great many more of lesser degree,--In sooth a goodly company;And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee
To a Lady, Who Valu'd Herself on Speaking Her Mind in a Blunt Manner, Which She Call'd Being Sincere
© Mary Barber
WELL you Sincerity display, A virtue wond'rous rare !Nor value, tho' the world should say, You're rude, so you're sincere
To Mrs. P********, with some Drawings of Birds and Insects
© Anna Lætitia Barbauld
The kindred arts to please thee shall conspire,One dip the pencil, and one string the lyre. (Pope)
To Mr. Barbauld, November 14, 1778
© Anna Lætitia Barbauld
Come, clear thy studious looks awhile, 'T is arrant treason now To wear that moping brow, When I, thy empress, bid thee smile.
To a Little Invisible Being Who is Expected Soon to Become Visible
© Anna Lætitia Barbauld
Germ of new life, whose powers expanding slowFor many a moon their full perfection wait,--Haste, precious pledge of happy love, to goAuspicious borne through life's mysterious gate.
The Rights of Women
© Anna Lætitia Barbauld
Yes, injured Woman! rise, assert thy right!Woman! too long degraded, scorned, opprest;O born to rule in partial Law's despite,Resume thy native empire o'er the breast!
The Caterpillar
© Anna Lætitia Barbauld
No, helpless thing, I cannot harm thee now;Depart in peace, thy little life is safe,For I have scanned thy form with curious eye,Noted the silver line that streaks thy back,The azure and the orange that divideThy velvet sides; thee, houseless wanderer,My garment has enfolded, and my armFelt the light pressure of thy hairy feet;Thou hast curled round my finger; from its tip,Precipitous descent! with stretched out neck,Bending thy head in airy vacancy,This way and that, inquiring, thou hast seemedTo ask protection; now, I cannot kill thee
The Violin
© Ball J. E.
The Violin, all good musicians say, While yet in babyhood you must begin; And so, beneath my little rounded chin,'Twas promptly tucked, and I began to play The Violin.
The Mishap
© Aytoun William Edmonstoune
"Why art thou weeping, sister? Why is thy cheek so pale?Look up, dear Jane, and tell me What is it thou dost ail?
The Faking Boy to the Crap is Gone
© Aytoun William Edmonstoune
The faking boy to the crap is gone,At the nubbing-cheat you'll find him;The hempen cord they have girded on,And his elbows pinned behind him
