Poems begining by T
/ page 467 of 916 /
Three Songs at the End of Summer
© Jane Kenyon
A second crop of hay lies cut
and turned. Five gleaming crows
search and peck between the rows.
They make a low, companionable squawk,
and like midwives and undertakers
possess a weird authority.
The Closet
© Bill Knott
(...after my Mother’s death)
Here not long enough after the hospital happened
I find her closet lying empty and stop my play
And go in and crane up at three blackwire hangers
Which quiver, airy, released. They appear to enjoy
The Old Byway
© Madison Julius Cawein
Its rotting fence one scarcely sees
Through sumac and wild blackberries,
Thick elder and the bramble-rose,
Big ox-eyed daisies where the bees
Hang droning in repose.
The Tickle
© Gamaliel Bradford
I like to read confessions
As lengthy as Rousseau's,
With all their slow processions
Of innumerable woes.
The Warrior's Prayer
© Paul Laurence Dunbar
Long since, in sore distress, I heard one pray,
"Lord, who prevailest with resistless might,
Ever from war and strife keep me away,
My battles fight!"
"The Old Psalm Tune"
© Harriet Beecher Stowe
You asked, dear friend, the other day,
Why still my charmed ear
Rejoiceth in uncultured tone
That old psalm tune to hear?
The Bushman
© Anonymous
When the merchant lies down, he can scarce go to sleep
For thinking of his merchandise upon the fatal deep;
His ships may be cast away or taken in a war,
So him alone we'll envy not, who true bushmen are.
Three Years She Grew
© André Breton
Three years she grew in sun and shower,
Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower
On earth was never sown;
This Child I to myself will take;
She shall be mine, and I will make
A Lady of my own.
The Magic of Numbers
© Kenneth Koch
The Magic of Numbers—1
How strange it was to hear the furniture being moved around in the apartment upstairs!
"The falling is the constant mate of fear"
© Osip Emilevich Mandelstam
The falling is the constant mate of fear,
And feel of emptiness is the feel of fright.
Who throws us the stones from the height --
And stones here refuse the dust to bear?
The Old Liberators
© Robert Hedin
Of all the people in the mornings at the mall,
it’s the old liberators I like best,
Thick Is The Darkness
© William Ernest Henley
Thick is the darkness -
Sunward, O, sunward!
Rough is the highway -
Onward, still onward!
The Adventures of a Turtle
© Russell Edson
The turtle carries his house on his back. He is both the house and the person of that house.
But actually, under the shell is a little room where the true turtle, wearing long underwear, sits at a little table. At one end of the room a series of levers sticks out of slots in the floor, like the controls of a steam shovel. It is with these that the turtle controls the legs of his house.
Most of the time the turtle sits under the sloping ceiling of his turtle room reading catalogues at the little table where a candle burns. He leans on one elbow, and then the other. He crosses one leg, and then the other. Finally he yawns and buries his head in his arms and sleeps.
If he feels a child picking up his house he quickly douses the candle and runs to the control levers and activates the legs of his house and tries to escape.
The Tall Figures of Giacometti
© May Swenson
We move by means of our mud bumps.
We bubble as do the dead but more slowly.
