Poems begining by T
/ page 395 of 916 /
The Treasure
© Rupert Brooke
When colour goes home into the eyes,
And lights that shine are shut again,
With dancing girls and sweet birds' cries
Behind the gateways of the brain;
And that no-place which gave them birth, shall close
The rainbow and the rose:
The Bottom Drawer
© Anonymous
In the best chamber of the house,
Shut up in dim, uncertain light,
There stood an antique chest of drawers,
Of foreign wood, with brasses bright.
The Little Dog's Day
© Rupert Brooke
All in the town were still asleep,
When the sun came up with a shout and a leap.
In the lonely streets unseen by man,
A little dog danced. And the day began.
The Thumbed Collar
© Edgar Albert Guest
Go up and change your collar," mother often says to me,
"For you can't go out in that one, it's as dirty as can be.
There are splotches on the surface where they very plainly show."
"That is very queer," I answer, "it was clean an hour ago."
But I guess just what has happened, and in this it's clearly summed:
He who lets a baby love him often gets his collar thumbed.
The Soldier
© Rupert Brooke
If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
The Portent
© Herman Melville
Hanging from the beam,
Slowly swaying (such the law),
Gaunt the shadow on the green,
Shenandoah!
The Old Maid's Story
© Ada Cambridge
Ay, many and many a year's gone by,
Since the dawn of that day in spring,
The Forester
© Robert Bloomfield
Born in a dark wood's lonely dell,
Where echoes roar'd, and tendrils curl'd
To Hafiz
© Thomas Bailey Aldrich
THOUGH gifts like thine the fates gave not to me,
One thing, O Hafiz, we both hold in fee
The Enthusiast
© Herman Melville
"Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him"Shall hearts that beat no base retreat
In youth's magnanimous years -
Ignoble hold it, if discreet
When interest tames to fears;
The Troubadour. Canto 2
© Letitia Elizabeth Landon
THE first, the very first; oh! none
Can feel again as they have done;
In love, in war, in pride, in all
The planets of life's coronal,
However beautiful or bright,--
What can be like their first sweet light?
The Poet Fears Failure
© Erica Jong
The critic is only doing his job:
keeping the poet lonely.
He barks
like a dog at the door
when the master comes home.
Three Seasons
© Christina Georgina Rossetti
'A cup for hope!' she said,
In springtime ere the bloom was old:
The crimson wine was poor and cold
By her mouth's richer red.
The End of the World
© Erica Jong
Here, at the end of the world,
the poets are bleeding.
Writing & bleeding
are thought to be the same;
singing & bleeding
are thought to be the same.
The Artist as an Old Man
© Erica Jong
He has come to like his resignation.
In his sketch books, ink-dark cossacks hear
the snorts of horses in the crunch of snow.
His pen alone recalls that years ago,
one horseman set his teeth and aimed his spear
which, poised, seemed pointed straight to pierce the sun.
The Secret
© Robert Laurence Binyon
I
I lay upon my bed in the great night:
The sense of my body drowsed;
But a clearness yet lingered in the spirit,
By soft obscurity housed.
