Poems begining by T
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The Statue Over The Cathedral Door. (From The German Of Julius Mosen)
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Forms of saints and kings are standing
The cathedral door above;
Yet I saw but one among them
Who hath soothed my soul with love.
The Wheels Of The System
© George Essex Evans
Where is God, whilst all around us sounds the jarring of the wheels,
When the cry of human anguish starwards thro His glory steals?
There is neither hope nor pity underneath the moving wheels.
Woe to him who slips or falters whilst the wheels are moving on!
Woe to him who stays to breathe him when the goal is nearly won!
There they lieand lie for everover whom the wheels have gone!
The Christmas Homes Of England
© Caroline Hayward
The Christmas homes of England!
How far-famed and how dear;
In bright array they ever stand,
That glad day of the year;
The Pastime of Pleasure: Of dysposycyon the II. parte of rethoryke - (til line 2240)
© Stephen Hawes
Amoure.
2136 Alas madame / now the bryght lodes sterre
2137 Of my true herte / where euer I go or ryde
2138 Thoughe that my body / be frome you aferr
2139 Yet my herte onely / shall with you abyde
2140 Whan than you lyste / ye maye for me prouyde
The Blind Heart
© Arthur Symons
Be still, O hunger of heart, and let pity speak:
Her soul is a wandering bird, and its wings are weak,
Pier heart is a little flame, it pants at a sigh:
blind and pitiless heart, it is love going by.
The Four Angels
© Rudyard Kipling
As Adam lay a-dreaming beneath the Apple Tree
The Angel of the Earth came down, and offered Earth in fee;
The Empty Glass
© Henry Lawson
THERE ARE three lank bards in a borrowed room
Ah! The number is one too few
The Mourners
© Caroline Norton
LOW she lies, who blest our eyes
Through many a sunny day;
She may not smile, she will not rise--
The life hath past away!
The Harp The Monarch Minstrel Swept
© George Gordon Byron
The harp the monarch minstrel swept,
The King of men, the loved of Heaven,
The Cup Of Joy
© Madison Julius Cawein
Let us mix a cup of Joy
That the wretched may employ,
Whom the Fates have made their toy.
The City Of The Soul: II
© Lord Alfred Douglas
Think how the hidden things that poets see
In amber eves or mornings crystalline,
Hide in the soul their constant quenchless light,
Till, called by some celestial alchemy,
Out of forgotten depths, they rise and shine
Like buried treasure on Midsummer night.
Though short thy span, God's unimpeach'd decrees
© George Canning
Though short thy span, God's unimpeach'd decrees,
Which made that shorten'd span one long disease,
Teint Neutre
© Edith Nesbit
WIDE downs all gray, with gray of clouds roofed over,
Chill fields stripped naked of their gown of grain,
Small fields of rain-wet grass and close-grown clover,
Wet, wind-blown trees--and, over all, the rain.
The Dead Coach
© Katharine Tynan
At night when sick folk wakeful lie,
I heard the dead coach passing by,
And heard it passing wild and fleet,
And knew my time was come not yet.
The Wild Ride
© Louise Imogen Guiney
The trail is through dolor and dread, over crags and morasses;
There are shapes by the way, there are things that appal or entice us:
What odds? We are Knights of the Grail, we are vowed to the riding.
Tired
© Augusta Davies Webster
No not to-night, dear child; I cannot go;
I'm busy, tired; they knew I should not come;
you do not need me there. Dear, be content,
and take your pleasure; you shall tell me of it.
There, go to don your miracles of gauze,
and come and show yourself a great pink cloud.
The Aungeles Song & Alle Othir Seintes In The Feste Of Pentecost.
© Thomas Hoccleve
HOnured be thu, holy gost in hie, That vn-to poeple of so pore astatehast youe thi grace, to stondë myghtelyAgeyn tyrauntës fiers & obstynate,ffor to endwe them with thi principate To leve hire erroure, & hire liffe to amende:honured be thu, lord, with-owt[en] ende!
Thu gave hem wete & cunnyng [for] to preche, And corage for to stand[ë] be the lawe,Alle maner poepil, to wisshe & to teche,ffrom vices alle hir lustës to with-drawe,And of hire lord [&] god to stande in awe, To his pleasaunce hire hertës to intende:Honured be thu, lord, with-owt[en] ende!
The Coming Of Te Rauparaha.
© Arthur Henry Adams
BLUE, the wreaths of smoke, like drooping banners
From the flaming battlements of sunset
Hung suspended; and within his whare
Hipe, last of Ngatiraukawa's chieftains,
The Sinking Ship
© Dora Sigerson Shorter
The ship is sinking, come ye one and all.
Stand fast and so this weakness overhaul,
