Poems begining by T
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The Country Retreat
© Letitia Elizabeth Landon
OH lone and lovely solitude,
Washed by the sounding sea;
Nature was in a poet's mood,
When she created thee.
The Song Sparrow's Nest
© Ethelwyn Wetherald
Here where tumultuous vines
Shadow the porch at the west,
To A February Primrose
© George MacDonald
I have no words. But fragrant is the breath,
Pale beauty, of thy second life within.
There is a wind that cometh for thy death,
But thou a life immortal dost begin,
Where in one soul, which is thy heaven, shall dwell
Thy spirit, beautiful Unspeakable!
The Maple
© James Russell Lowell
The Maple puts her corals on in May,
While loitering frosts about the lowlands cling,
The Greatest Love
© Anna Swirszczynska
She walks arm-in-arm with her dear one,
her hair streams in the wind.
Her dear one says:
"You have hair like pearls."
Three Songs For Lady Pan
© Wang Wei
Fireflies flash on mica screens.
No echo in Golden Halls.
Seen through gauze the autumn night
Where the lonely light shines.
The Butterfly That Stamped
© Rudyard Kipling
There was never a Queen like Balkis,
From here to the wide world's end;
But Balkis talked to a butterfly
As you would talk to a friend.
The Lesson
© Paul Laurence Dunbar
MY cot was down by a cypress grove,
And I sat by my window the whole night long,
Toward the Close
© Robert Crawford
Time grows upon us until we exhaust
Hope's possibilities, and then we die
The Episode Of Nisus And Euryalus
© George Gordon Byron
'In vain you damp the ardour of my soul,'
Replied Euryalus; 'it scorns control!
Hence, let us haste! '- their brother guards arose,
Roused by their call, nor court again repose;
The pair, bouyed up on Hope's exulting wing,
Their stations leave, and speed to seek the king.
The Crusader
© Robert Laurence Binyon
Effigy mailed and mighty beneath thy mail
That liest asleep with hand upon carved sword--hilt
As ready to waken and strong to stand and hail
Death, where hosts are shaken and hot life spilt;
The Snowstorm
© Ralph Waldo Emerson
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
The Recordyng Of Aungeles Song Of The Natiuite Of Oure Lady.
© Thomas Hoccleve
HOnured be thu, blisseful lord benigne, That now vntó man wil be merciábleAs he may se apertly be a signe,A braunche, þat sprongen is ful profitable,fful fresch & faire, & heily commendable Of Iesse-is Rote, þat called is marie,That schal the blisseful appil fructifie.
A blisful flour, owt of this spray schal springe; The fruyt þer-of schal be ful precïous;A causë haue [we] for to ioye & synge,In honure of þat maidë gracïous,That gret comfort schal cause[n] vnto vs; ffor now schal faste oure company encrees,And god with man schal makë smallë pees.
The Art Of War. Book III.
© Henry James Pye
Your footsteps now the arsenals have trod
Where lie the treasures of the warrior God;
Yet 'midst his ranks to serve is little fame,
Little avails the soldier's ardent flame,
Unless to all the heights of art you climb,
And reach of martial skill the true sublime.
To Goethe
© Robert Laurence Binyon
Goethe, who saw and who foretold
A world revealed
New--springing from its ashes old
On Valmy field,
To Mrs. Putland.
© Mary Barber
Uncommon Charms, I plainly see,
Compleat the Fair for Tyranny.
Then, lest your Form should make you vain
Of Conquest, and of giving Pain,
Those, whom your Beauties have enslav'd,
By me shall now be undeceiv'd.
