Poems begining by T
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Toil's Sweet Content
© Sam Walter Foss
The Man of Questions paused and stood
Before the Man of Toil,
And asked, "Are you content, my man,
To dig here in the soil?
The Town Dump
© Howard Nemerov
“The art of our necessities is strange,
That can make vile things precious.”
To One In A Silent Time
© Alice Meynell
Who looked for thee, thou little song of mine?
This winter of a silent poet's heart
Is suddenly sweet with thee, but what thou art,
Mid-winter flower, I would I could divine.
To A Friend Whose Work Has Come To Nothing
© William Butler Yeats
NOW all the truth is out,
Be secret and take defeat
The Lost Land
© Eavan Boland
and memory itself
has become an emigrant,
wandering in a place
where love dissembles itself as landscape:
The Months
© Linda Pastan
Contorted by wind,
mere armatures for ice or snow,
the trees resolve
to endure for now,
The Princess: Sweet and Low
© Alfred Tennyson
Sweet and low, sweet and low,
Wind of the western sea,
To Giusue Carducci
© George William Lewis Marshall-Hall
O RICH and splendid soul that overflowest
With light and fire caught from thy native skies!
The Fiddler
© Robert Fuller Murray
There's a fiddler in the street,
And the children all are dancing:
Two dozen lightsome feet
Springing and prancing.
The GraceMyselfmight not obtain
© Emily Dickinson
The GraceMyselfmight not obtain
Confer upon My flower
Refracted but a Countenance
For Iinhabit Her
There is no Frigate like a Book (1286)
© Emily Dickinson
There is no Frigate like a Book
To take us Lands away
The Habitants Summer
© William Henry Drummond
O, who can blame de winter, never min'
de hard he 's blowin'
The Lake of the Thousand Isles
© Evan MacColl
(For Music.)
Though Missouri'stide may majestic glide,
There's a curse on the soil it laves;
The Ohio, too, may be fair, but who
The Sweetness of Life
© Archibald Lampman
It fell on a day I was happy,
And the winds, the concave sky,
The Indian Upon God
© William Butler Yeats
I PASSED along the water's edge below the humid trees,
My spirit rocked in evening light, the rushes round my
To a Mountain Daisy
© Robert Burns
Alas! it's no thy neibor sweet,
The bonie lark, companion meet,
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet
Wi' spreck'd breast,
When upward-springing, blythe, to greet
The purpling east.
The Travelled Oyster
© John Kenyon
Good Reader! were it ours to choose,
Such ne'er should quit their native ooze;
Or ne'er, at least, should hit the track
Which brings them, for our torture, back.
