Poems begining by T
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The Woodsmen Of San Juan
© Jose Asuncion Silva
See the woodsmen of San Juan,
They want bread before its gone.
Sss-sss-sawing,
Sawing on!
The Fish
© Rupert Brooke
In a cool curving world he lies
And ripples with dark ecstasies.
The kind luxurious lapse and steal
Shapes all his universe to feel
The Song of the Pilgrims
© Rupert Brooke
(Halted around the fire by night, after moon-set, they sing this beneath the trees.)What light of unremembered skies
Hast thou relumed within our eyes,
Thou whom we seek, whom we shall find? . . .
A certain odour on the wind,
The King's Daughter
© Algernon Charles Swinburne
WE WERE ten maidens in the green corn,
Small red leaves in the mill-water:
Fairer maidens never were born,
Apples of gold for the kings daughter.
The Dead Wife
© Dora Sigerson Shorter
Thrice turned she in her narrow bed,
His tears disturbed her rest;
The Stricken South To The North
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
WHEN ruthful time the South's memorial places--
Her heroes' graves--had wreathed in grass and flowers;
When Peace ethereal, crowned by all her graces,
Returned to make more bright the summer hours;
Thoughts On The Shape Of The Human Body
© Rupert Brooke
How can we find? how can we rest? how can
We, being gods, win joy, or peace, being man?
We, the gaunt zanies of a witless Fate,
Who love the unloving and lover hate,
The Patchwork Quilt
© Robert Graves
Here is this patchwork quilt I've made
Of patterned silks and old brocade,
The Old Homestead
© Paul Laurence Dunbar
'Tis an old deserted homestead
On the outskirts of the town,
The Great Lover
© Rupert Brooke
O dear my loves, O faithless, once again
This one last gift I give: that after men
Shall know, and later lovers, far-removed,
Praise you, "All these were lovely"; say "He loved".
To F. W. N. A Birthday Offering
© John Henry Newman
Dear Frank, this morn has usher'd in
The manhood of thy days;
A boy no more, thou must begin
To choose thy future ways;
To brace thy arm, and nerve thy heart,
For maintenance of a noble part.
The Lost Range
© Henry Herbert Knibbs
Only a few of us understood his ways and his outfit queer,
His saddle horse and his pack-horse, as lean as a winter steer,
Thorwaldsen
© Thomas Bailey Aldrich
Not in the fabled influence of some star,
Benign or evil, do our fortunes lie;
The Old Vicarage, Granchester
© Rupert Brooke
Just now the lilac is in bloom,
All before my little room;
And in my flower-beds, I think,
Smile the carnation and the pink;
The Dead
© Rupert Brooke
Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead!
There's none of these so lonely and poor of old,
But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold.
These laid the world away; poured out the red
The Child
© Isabel Ecclestone Mackay
I MAY not lift him in my arms. His face I may not see--
Are angel hands more tender than a mother's hands may be?
And does he smile to hear the song an angel stole from me?
