Poems begining by T
/ page 383 of 916 /
The Last Hero
© Gilbert Keith Chesterton
The wind blew out from Bergen from the dawning to the day,
There was a wreck of trees and fall of towers a score of miles away,
The Barberry-Bush
© Jones Very
The bush that has most briers and bitter fruit
Waits till the frost has turned its green leaves red,
The Forest Pine
© Robert Laurence Binyon
A hundred autumns fallen in fire
To dust and mould
Have faded from their perished gold
To throne thee higher,
The Moral Bully
© Oliver Wendell Holmes
YON whey-faced brother, who delights to wear
A weedy flux of ill-conditioned hair,
The Wind And The Whirlwind
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
I have a thing to say. But how to say it?
I have a cause to plead. But to what ears?
How shall I move a world by lamentation,
A world which heeded not a Nation's tears?
The Legend Glorified
© James Whitcomb Riley
"I deem that God is not disquieted"--
This in a mighty poet's rhymes I read;
And blazoned so forever doth abide
Within my soul the legend glorified.
Tori Soorat Kay Balihaari
© Amir Khusro
Tori soorat kay balihaari, Nijaam
Tori soorat kay balihaari.
Sab sakhiyan mein chundar meri mailee,
Dekh hansain nar naari, Nijaam........
The New Duckling
© Alfred Noyes
"I want to be new," said the duckling.
"O, ho!" said the wise old owl,
While the guinea-hen cluttered off chuckling
To tell all the rest of the fowl.
The Little Lady Of The Bullock Cart
© Wilcox Ella Wheeler
Now is the time when India is gay
With wedding parties; and the radiant throngs
Seem like a scattered rainbow taking part
In human pleasures. Dressed in bright array,
They fling upon the bride their wreaths of songs-
The Little Lady of the Bullock Cart.
The Secret
© Isabel Ecclestone Mackay
IF I should tell you what I know
Of where the first primroses grow,
Betray the secrets of the lily,
Bring crocus-gold and daffodilly,
Would you tell me if charm there be
To win a maiden, willy-nilly?
The Old Unrest.
© Robert Crawford
That which made us seems to fret
Like a pang within us yet,
As if we unfinished were,
Such blind gropings in us stir,
The Year's Shreddings
© George Meredith
The varied colours are a fitful heap:
They pass in constant service though they sleep;
The self gone out of them, therewith the pain:
Read that, who still to spell our earth remain.
To Imagination
© Emily Jane Brontë
When weary with the long day's care,
And earthly change from pain to pain,
And lost, and ready to despair,
Thy kind voice calls me back again:
Oh, my true friend! I am not lone,
While then canst speak with such a tone!
The Hunter Of The Prairies
© William Cullen Bryant
Ay, this is freedom!--these pure skies
Were never stained with village smoke:
To Louise
© Paul Laurence Dunbar
OH, the poets may sing of their Lady Irenes,
And may rave in their rhymes about wonderful queens;
The Mead A-Mowd
© William Barnes
When sheädes do vall into ev'ry hollow,
An' reach vrom trees half athirt the groun';
The Grave Of Howard
© William Lisle Bowles
Spirit of Death! whose outstretched pennons dread
Wave o'er the world beneath their shadow spread;
Tom's Garland: Upon the Unemployed
© Gerard Manley Hopkins
Tomgarlanded with squat and surly steel
Tom; then Tom's fallowbootfellow piles pick
