Poems begining by T
/ page 369 of 916 /
The Panther
© John Hall Wheelock
His gaze through the bars forever going by him
Has grown so dulled it takes in nothing else.
To him it seems a thousand bars go by him,
That behind the thousand bars there is nothing else.
Träumerei
© Philip Larkin
In this dream that dogs me I am part
Of a silent crowd walking under a wall,
The Hour And The Ghost
© Christina Georgina Rossetti
I have thee close, my dear,
No terror can come near;
Only far off the northern light shines clear.
The Rarity Of Genius
© Thomas Bailey Aldrich
While yet my lip was breathing youth's first breath,
I all too young to know their deepest spell,
The Trumpet-Part
© Paul Celan
The Trumpet-Part
deep in the glowing
Text-Void
at Torch-Height,
in the Time-Hole:
The Bee is not afraid
© Emily Dickinson
The Bee is not afraid of me.
I know the Butterfly.
The pretty people in the Woods
Receive me cordially
The Wood Carver's Wife
© Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
JEAN MARCHANT, the wood-carver.
DORETTE, his wife.
LOUIS DE LOTBINIERE.
SHAGONAS, an Indian lad.
The Valentine Wreath
© James Montgomery
Rosy red the hills appear
With the light of morning,
Beauteous clouds, in aether clear,
All the east adorning;
White through the mist the meadows shine
Wake, my love, my Valentine!
The Ship-Builders
© John Greenleaf Whittier
THE sky is ruddy in the east,
The earth is gray below,
And, spectral in the river-mist,
The ship's white timbers show.
The Passage
© Jean Blewett
O SOUL on God's high seas! the way is strange and long,
Yet fling your pennons out, and spread your canvas strong;
For though to mortal eyes so small a craft you seem,
The highest star in heaven doth lend you guiding gleam.
The Crystal Palace
© William Makepeace Thackeray
With ganial foire
Thransfuse me loyre,
Ye sacred nympths of Pindus,
The whoile I sing
That wondthrous thing,
The Palace made o' windows!
The Thrush In February
© George Meredith
I know him, February's thrush,
And loud at eve he valentines
On sprays that paw the naked bush
Where soon will sprout the thorns and bines.
The Cut-Down Trousers
© Edgar Albert Guest
When father couldn't wear them mother cut them down for me;
She took the slack in fore and aft, and hemmed them at the knee;
They fitted rather loosely, but the things that made me glad
Were the horizontal pockets that those good old trousers had.
The Wreck Of Rivermouth
© John Greenleaf Whittier
Rivermouth Rocks are fair to see,
By dawn or sunset shone across,
The Windsor Prophecy
© Jonathan Swift
When a holy black Swede, the son of Bob,
With a saint at his chin and a seal at his fob,
Shall not see one New-Years-day in that year,
Then let old England make good cheer:
Those Shadon Bells
© Denis Florence MacCarthy
Those Shandon bells, those Shandon bells!
Whose deep, sad tone now sobs, now swells-
Who comes to seek this hallowed ground,
And sleep within their sacred sound?
