Poems begining by T
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To a Friend upon Overbury's wife given to her
© Henry King
I know no fitter subject for your view
Then this, a meditation ripe for you,
As you for it. Which when you read you'l see
What kind of wife your self will one day bee:
The Gypsies Road
© Dora Sigerson Shorter
I shall go on the gypsies' road,
The road that has no ending;
The Mother Gives Up Her Daughter
© Katharine Tynan
Though I must yield her up to you, her lover,
I have had sweetness more than you can know,
The little great-eyed maid beyond recover,
And all her tender worship long ago.
The Established
© James Baker
Each square is a slide towards the peril,
Each move becomes a series of doubt.
The pawn will creep, step by step.
Each time forward, the opposite flout.
The Faerie Queene, Book II, Canto XII
© Edmund Spenser
THE SECOND BOOKE OF THE FAERIE QUEENE
Contayning
THE LEGEND OF SIR GUYON,
OR OF TEMPERAUNCECANTO XIIxlii
The Story Without End
© Dora Sigerson Shorter
Before my time my kindred were
As felons in their land,
Tasso And His Sister
© Felicia Dorothea Hemans
She sat, where on each wind that sigh'd,
The citron's breath went by,
The Last Bullet
© John Farrell
for revenge upon those who were strong
Cattle speared at the first, blacks shot down,
and the blood of their babes, even, shed;
Blood that stains the same hue as our own.
It is written, red blood will have red !
The Triumph of the People
© Henry Lawson
LO, the gods of Vice and Mammon from their pinnacles are hurled
By the workers new religion, which is oldest in the world;
And the earth will feel her children treading firmly on the sod,
For the triumph of the People is the victory of God.
The Salad. By Virgil
© William Cowper
The winter night now well nigh worn away,
The wakeful cock proclaimed approaching day,
When Simulus, poor tenant of a farm
Of narrowest limits, heard the shrill alarm,
The Soldier's Return to His Home
© Robert Bloomfield
My untried muse shall no high tone assume,
Nor strut in arms - farewell, my cap and plume!
The Task: Book I. -- The Sofa
© William Cowper
I sing the Sofa. I who lately sang
Truth, Hope, and Charity, and touched with awe
The Boy In Church
© Robert Graves
'Gabble-gabble . . . brethren . . . gabble-gabble!'
My window glimpses larch and heather.
I hardly hear the tuneful babble,
Not knowing nor much caring whether
The text is praise or exhortation,
Prayer of thanksgiving or damnation.
The Appeal
© Edith Nesbit
ALL summer-time you said:
"Love has no need of shelter nor of kindness,
For all the flowers take pity on his blindness,
And lead him to his scented rose-soft bed."
To Wordsworth
© Hartley Coleridge
THERE have been poets that in verse display
The elemental forms of human passions;
The years, wherein I never knew
© Madison Julius Cawein
The years, wherein I never knew
Such beauty as is yours,--so fraught
With truth and kindness looking through
Your loveliness,--I count them naught,
O girl, so like a lily wrought!
The years wherein I knew not you.
To G. C. And R. L.
© Oliver Goldsmith
'TWAS you, or I, or he, or all together,
'Twas one, both, three of them, they know not whether;
This, I believe, between us great or small,
You, I, he, wrote it not--'twas Churchill's all.
The Old Man's Counsel
© William Cullen Bryant
Long since that white-haired ancient slept--but still,
When the red flower-buds crowd the orchard bough,
And the ruffed grouse is drumming far within
The woods, his venerable form again
Is at my side, his voice is in my ear.
