Poems begining by T

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The Lonely Land

© Madison Julius Cawein

A RIVER binds the lonely land,
A river like a silver band,
To crags and shores of yellow sand.
It is a place where kildees cry,

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To A Friend Estranged From Me

© Edna St. Vincent Millay

Now goes under, and I watch it go under, the sun
That will not rise again.
Today has seen the setting, in your eyes cold and senseless as the sea,
Of friendship better than bread, and of bright charity
That lifts a man a little above the beasts that run.

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The Cat Of Cats

© William Brighty Rands

I am the cat of cats. I am

The everlasting cat!

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The Butterfly

© Joseph Skipsey

The butterfly from flower to flower 

  The urchin chas’d; and, when at last 

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Trio

© Victoria Mary Sackville-West

So well she knew them both! yet as she came

Into the room, and heard their speech

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The Decimal Point

© Norman Rowland Gale

When first sent to School (now the Station was Rugby)

I fancied my masters and took to the boys;

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The Last Song

© Madison Julius Cawein

She sleeps; he sings to her. The day was long,

And, tired out with too much happiness,

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To Cowper

© Anne Brontë

Sweet are thy strains, celestial Bard;
And oft, in childhood's years,
I've read them o'er and o'er again,
With floods of silent tears.

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The Little Sister Of The Prophet

© Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall

Then the little brown mother smiled,
As one does on the words of a well-loved child,
And, "Son," she replied, "have the oxen been watered and fed ?
For work is to do, though the skies be never so red,
And already the first sweet hours of the day are spent."
And he sighed, and went.

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The Lanawn Shee

© Francis Ledwidge

Powdered and perfumed the full bee
Winged heavily across the clover,
And where the hills were dim with dew,
Purple and blue the west leaned over.

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The Cherry Tree by David Wagoner: American Life in Poetry #202 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate 2004-2

© Ted Kooser

Its oldest branches now, the survivors carved
by knife blades, rain, and wind, are sending shoots
straight up, blood red, into the light again.


American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Poem copyright ©2008 by David Wagoner, whose most recent book of poetry is “Good Morning and Good Night,â€? University of Illinois Press, 2005. Reprinted from “Crazyhorse,â€? No. 73, Spring 2008, by permission of David Wagoner. Introduction copyright © 2009 by The Poetry Foundation. The introduction's author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 2004-2006. We do not accept unsolicited manuscripts.

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The ghost Bereft

© Edith Nesbit


Thin cowered the hedges, the tall trees swayed
Like little children that shrank afraid.

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The Ragwort

© Frances Darwin Cornford

THE thistles on the sandy flats
Are courtiers with crimson hats ;
The ragworts, growing up so straight,
Are emperors who stand in state,
And march about, so proud and bold,
In crowns of fairy-story gold.

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The Dirge Of Jephthah's Daughter:sung By The Virgin-Martyr

© Robert Herrick

O thou, the wonder of all days!
O paragon, and pearl of praise!
O Virgin-martyr, ever blest
Above the rest
Of all the maiden-train!  We come,
And bring fresh strewings to thy tomb.

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The Vicksburg Jail

© Anonymous

O, when the poar pris'ner is put in the jaile,
he is put in a cell and his doors are all bar'd
With a great long chane he is bound to the floor,
And dam thear mean soles thay can do nothing more.

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The Roman Gravemounds

© Thomas Hardy

By Rome's dim relics there walks a man,
Eyes bent; and he carries a basket and spade;
I guess what impels him to scrape and scan;
Yea, his dreams of that Empire long decayed.

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The Fearful Traveller In The Haunted Castle

© George Moses Horton

Oft do I hear those windows ope
And shut with dread surprise,
And spirits murmur as they grope,
But break not on the eyes.

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The Sleeper

© Madison Julius Cawein

She sleeps and dreams; one milk-white, lawny arm
  Pillowing her heavy hair, as might cold Night
  Meeting her sister Day, with glory warm,
  Subside in languor on her bosom's white.

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The Dead Lover

© James Whitcomb Riley

Time is so long when a man is dead!
Some one sews; and the room is made
Very clean; and the light is shed
Soft through the window-shade.