Poems begining by T
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The Three Concerned
© Leon Gellert
The Man
He lies forgotten 'neath the watching skies,
the blood upon his bayonet scarlet bright;
the red moon shining in his glazed eyes,
the 'Last Post' crying, crying in the night.
The Secret Whisky Cure
© Henry Lawson
Twas a common sordid marriage, and theres little new to tell
Save the pub to him was Heaven and his own home was a hell:
With the office in between thempurgatory to be sure
And, as far as Jones could make outwell, there wasnt any cure.
To A Young Girl At A Window
© Margaret Widdemer
THE Poor Old Soul plods down the street,
Contented, and forgetting
How Youth was wild, and Spring was wild
And how her life is setting;
The Beggar And The Angel
© Duncan Campbell Scott
An angel burdened with self-pity
Came out of heaven to a modern city.
The Players Ask For A Blessing On The Psalteries And On Themselves
© William Butler Yeats
First Voice. Maybe they linger by the way.
One gathers up his purple gown;
One leans and mutters by the wall -
He dreads the weight of mortal hours.
The Performance
© James Dickey
The last time I saw Donald Armstrong
He was staggering oddly off into the sun,
Going down, off the Philippine Islands.
I let my shovel fall, and put that hand
Above my eyes, and moved some way to one side
That his body might pass through the sun,
To Mr. Rose;
© Mary Barber
Presumptuous Youth! this dang'rous Art forbear;
Nor tempt a Character beyond thy Sphere.
Let meaner Flames thy tender Breast inspire;
Touch not a Beam of hers--'Tis sacred Fire!
Phoebus might trust thy Mother with his Sun;
But you, fond Boy, may prove a Phaeton.
To the West
© William Percy French
The Midland Great Western is doing its best,
And the circular ticket is safe in my vest;
But I know that my holiday never begins
Till I'm in Connemara among the Twelve Pins.
The New Dispensation
© Edith Nesbit
OUT in the sun the buttercups are gold,
The daisies silver all the grassy lane,
And spring has given love a flower to hold,
And love lays blindness on the eyes of pain.
The Shadows
© Oliver Wendell Holmes
"How many have gone?" was the question of old
Ere Time our bright ring of its jewels bereft;
Alas! for too often the death-bell has tolled,
And the question we ask is, "How many are left?"
The Bishop of Rum-Ti-Foo
© William Schwenck Gilbert
From east and south the holy clan
Of Bishops gathered to a man;
The Living Beauties
© Edgar Albert Guest
I never knew, until they went,
How much their laughter really meant
I never knew how much the place
Depended on each little face;
How barren home could be and drear
Without its living beauties here.
The Wood Witch
© Madison Julius Cawein
There is a woodland witch who lies
With bloom-bright limbs and beam-bright eyes,
Train Journey
© Judith Wright
Glassed with cold sleep and dazzled by the moon,
out of the confused hammering dark of the train
The Wanderer
© Mathilde Blind
ON unknown paths I falter forth,
A homeless wand'rer in the world;
Doubtful I flit across the earth,
Whither by blowing fates I'm hurled.
To-- One word is too often profaned
© Percy Bysshe Shelley
I.
One word is too often profaned
For me to profane it,
One feeling too falsely disdained
The India Wharf
© Sara Teasdale
Here in the velvet stillness
The wide sown fields fall to the faint horizon,
Sleeping in starlight. . . .
