Poems begining by T
/ page 342 of 916 /
To Boris Pilnyak
© Boris Pasternak
Ah, don't I know that, groping in the gloom,
Night would not find its way out of the dark?
Am I monster who the millions' doom
Would shrug away for a few hundreds' luck?
The Angel In The House. Book II. Canto XII.
© Coventry Kersey Dighton Patmore
Preludes
I The Married Lover
The Suicide
© James Weldon Johnson
For fifty years,
Cruel, insatiable Old World.
You have punched me over the heart
Till you made me cough blood.
The Recluse
© James Montgomery
A fountain issuing into light
Before a marble palace, threw
To heaven its column, pure and bright,
Returning thence in showers of dew;
But soon a humbler course it took,
And glide away a nameless brook.
The Night And The Rose
© Guido Gezelle
I have many an hour with you worn out and enjoyed
and never has an hour with you bored me for a moment.
The Sakiyeh
© Mathilde Blind
Poor Brutes! Who in unconsciousness sublime,
Replenishing the ever-empty jars,
Endow the waste with palms and harvest gold:
And men, who move in rhythm with moving stars,
Should shrink to give the borrowed lives they hold:
Bound blindfold to the groaning wheel of Time.
The Author's Farewell to the Bushmen
© Henry Lawson
Some carry their swags in the Great North-West,
Where the bravest battle and die,
The Slumber Angel
© Virna Sheard
When day is ended, and grey twilight flies
On silent wings across the tired land,
The slumber angel cometh from the skies-
The slumber angel of the peaceful eyes,
And with the scarlet poppies in his hand.
Thomas Middleton: IX
© Algernon Charles Swinburne
A WILD MOON riding high from cloud to cloud,
That sees and sees not, glimmering far beneath,
The Wisdom Of Merlyn
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
These are the time--words of Merlyn, the voice of his age recorded,
All his wisdom of life, the fruit of tears in his youth, of joy in his manhood hoarded,
All the wit of his years unsealed, to the witless alms awarded.
The Valediction
© William Cowper
Farewell, false hearts! whose best affections fail,
Like shallow brooks which summer suns exhale;
To Mrs. Throckmorton, On Her Beautiful Transcript Of Horace's Ode Ad Librum Suum
© William Cowper
Maria, could Horace have guessed
What honour awaited his ode
To his little volume addressed,
The honour which you have bestowed,--
The Trapeze Performer
© Stephen Vincent Benet
Over the sheer abyss so deadly-near,
He falls, like wine to its appointed cup,
Turns like a wheel of fireworks, and is mine.
Battering hands acclaim our triumph clear.
And steadfast muscles draw my sonnet up
To the firm iron of the fourteenth line.
The Merchant
© Rabindranath Tagore
Imagine, mother, that you are to stay at home and I am to travel
into strange lands.
To Thyrza
© George Gordon Byron
Without a stone to mark the spot,
And say, what Truth might well have said,
By all, save one, perchance forgot,
Ah! wherefore art thou lowly laid?
The Dead
© Charles Heavysege
How great unto the living seem the dead!
How sacred, solemn; how heroic grown;
To Italy. (From Filicaja)
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Italy! Italy! thou who'rt doomed to wear
The fatal gift of beauty and possess
