Poems begining by T
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Two Folk Songs
© Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch
When winter trees bestrew the path,
Still to the twig a leaf or twain
Will cling and weep, not Winter's wrath,
But that foreknown forlorner pain-
To fall when green leaves come again.
To My Truely Valiant, Learned Friend; Who In His Brooke Res
© Richard Lovelace
I.
Hearke, reader! wilt be learn'd ith' warres?
A gen'rall in a gowne?
Strike a league with arts and scarres,
And snatch from each a crowne?
The Station Master
© Arun Kolatkar
the booking clerk believes in the doctrine
of the next train
when conversations turns to time
he talks his tongue
hands it to you across the counter
and directs you to the superior
The Lady And The Dame
© Wilcox Ella Wheeler
So thou hast the art, good dame, thou swearest,
To keep Time's perishing touch at bay
The Piper
© Francis William Bourdillon
The dews were on the hedges,
The mist was on the mead,
When down among the sedges
I wrought my pipe of reed.
To Ethna
© Denis Florence MacCarthy
First loved, last loved, best loved of all I've loved!
Ethna, my boyhood's dream, my manhood's light,
The Truant Dove, From Pilpay
© Charlotte Turner Smith
A MOUNTAIN stream, its channel deep
Beneath a rock's rough base had torn;
The Grass
© Emily Dickinson
And thread the Dews, all night, like Pearls
And make itself so fine
A Duchess were too common
For such a noticing
The River Of Dreams
© Henry Van Dyke
The river of dreams runs quietly down
From its hidden home in the forest of sleep,
The Bird and the Hour
© Archibald Lampman
The sun looks over a little hill
And floods the valley with gold-
The Columbiad: Book IX
© Joel Barlow
Shrouded in deeper darkness now he veers
The vast gyration of a thousand years,
Strikes out each lamp that would illume his way,
Disputes his food with every beast of prey;
Imbands his force to fence his trist abodes,
A wretched robber with his feudal codes.
That Last Invocation
© Walt Whitman
At the last, tenderly,
From the walls of the powerful, fortress'd house,
From the clasp of the knitted locks-from the keep of the well-closed
doors,
Let me be wafted.
The Idlers Calendar. Twelve Sonnets For The Months. November
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
ACROSS COUNTRY
November's here. Once more the pink we don,
And on old Centaur, at the coverside,
Sit changing pleasant greetings one by one
The Arras Road
© Robert Laurence Binyon
I
The early night falls on the plain
In cloud and desolating rain.
I see no more, but feel around
The ruined earth, the wounded ground.
The Death-Song
© Frances Anne Kemble
Mother, mother! my heart is wild,
Hold me upon your bosom dear,
Do not frown on your own poor child,
Death is darkly drawing near.
The Almacks Adieu
© William Makepeace Thackeray
Your Fanny was never false-hearted,
And this she protests and she vows,
