Poems begining by T
/ page 436 of 916 /
The Dramatists
© Dorothy Parker
A string of shiny days we had,
A spotless sky, a yellow sun;
And neither you nor I was sad
When that was through and done.
The Dark Girl's Rhyme
© Dorothy Parker
Who was there had seen us
Wouldn't bid him run?
Heavy lay between us
All our sires had done.
The Danger Of Writing Defiant Verse
© Dorothy Parker
And now I have another lad!
No longer need you tell
How all my nights are slow and sad
For loving you too well.
The Choice
© Dorothy Parker
He'd have given me rolling lands,
Houses of marble, and billowing farms,
Pearls, to trickle between my hands,
Smoldering rubies, to circle my arms.
The Apple Tree
© Dorothy Parker
When first we saw the apple tree
The boughs were dark and straight,
But never grief to give had we,
Though Spring delayed so late.
Thing Language
© Jack Spicer
This ocean, humiliating in its disguises
Tougher than anything.
No one listens to poetry. The ocean
Does not mean to be listened to. A drop
The Meadows In Spring
© Edward Fitzgerald
'Tis a dull sight
To see the year dying,
When winter winds
Set the yellow wood sighing:
Sighing, oh! sighing.
The Rubaiyat Of Omar Khayyam Of Naishapur
© Edward Fitzgerald
Awake! for Morning in the Bowl of Night
Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight:
And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caught
The Sultan's Turret in a Noose of Light.
The Dream Called Life
© Edward Fitzgerald
From the Spanish of Pedro Calderon de la Barca
A dream it was in which I found myself.
And you that hail me now, then hailed me king,
In a brave palace that was all my own,
Tunbridge Wells
© John Wilmot
At five this morn, when Phoebus raised his head
From Thetis' lap, I raised myself from bed,
And mounting steed, I trotted to the waters
The rendesvous of fools, buffoons, and praters,
Cuckolds, whores, citizens, their wives and daughters.
The Platonic Lady
© John Wilmot
I could love thee till I die,
Would'st thou love me modestly,
And ne'er press, whilst I live,
For more than willingly I would give:
Which should sufficient be to prove
I'd understand the art of love.
The Mistress
© John Wilmot
An age in her embraces passed
Would seem a winter's day;
When life and light, with envious haste,
Are torn and snatched away.
To This Moment a Rebel
© John Wilmot
To this moment a rebel I throw down my arms,
Great Love, at first sight of Olinda's bright charms.
Make proud and secure by such forces as these,
You may now play the tyrant as soon as you please.
Taxi Suite (excerpt: 1. After Anacreon)
© Lew Welch
When I drive cab
I am the hunter. My prey leaps out from where it
hid, beguiling me with gestures
That Day you came
© Lizette Woodworth Reese
Such special sweetness was about
That day God sent you here,
I knew the lavender was out,
And it was mid of year.
Tears
© Lizette Woodworth Reese
When I consider Life and its few years --
A wisp of fog betwixt us and the sun;
A call to battle, and the battle done
Ere the last echo dies within our ears;
Towards The Imminent Days (Section 4)
© Les Murray
But our talk is cattle and cricket. My quiet uncle
has spent the whole forenoon sailing a stump-ridden field
of blady-grass and Pleistocene clay never ploughed
since the world's beginning. The Georgic furrow lengthens
The Images Alone
© Les Murray
Scarlet as the cloth draped over a sword,
white as steaming rice, blue as leschenaultia,
old curried towns, the frog in its green human skin;
a ploughman walking his furrow as if in irons, but
The Mowed Hollow
© Les Murray
Some yellow hangs on outside
forlornly tethered to posts.
Cars chase their own supply.
The Harleys
© Les Murray
Blats booted to blatant
dubbing the avenue dire
with rubbings of Sveinn Forkbeard
leading a black squall of Harleys
