Poems begining by T
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To Penshurst
© Benjamin Jonson
Thou art not, Penshurst, built to envious show,
Of touch or marble; nor canst boast a row
The Day Came Slow
© Emily Dickinson
The day came slow, till five o'clock,
Then sprang before the hills,
Like hindered rubies, or the light,
A sudden musket spills.
The Death of Antinoüs
© Mark Doty
When the beautiful young man drowned—
accidentally, swimming at dawn
in a current too swift for him,
or obedient to some cult
of total immersion that promised
the bather would come up divine,
To Mr Fashionable Fiancee
© Peter McArthur
I SOMETIMES think it would be sweet
If we were like the olden lovers
The simple-hearted ones we meet
In musty books with vellum covers.
The Last Bargain
© Anselm Hollo
"Come and hire me," I cried, while in the morning I was walking on the stone-paved road.
Sword in hand, the King came in his chariot.
He held my hand and said, "I will hire you with my power."
But his power counted for nought, and he went away in his chariot.
The Banner Of The Jew
© Emma Lazarus
Wake, Israel, wake! Recall to-day
The glorious Maccabean rage,
The sire heroic, hoary-gray,
His five-fold lion-lineage:
The Wise, the Elect, the Help-of-God,
The Burst-of-Spring, the Avenging Rod.
The bright blessed day with joy we see
© Nicolaj Frederik Severin Grundtvig
The bright blessed day with joy we see
Rise out of the sea at dawning;
It lightens the sky unceasingly,
Our gain and delight adorning!
As children of light we sense that soon
Dark night will give way to morning!
To The Reader
© John Bunyan
The title page will show, if there thou look,
Who are the proper subjects of this book.
They're boys and girls of all sorts and degrees,
Two Views of Buson
© Robert Hass
1
A French scholar says he affected the Chinese manner.
When he took his friends into the countryside
To look at blossoms, they all saw Chinese blossoms.
He dressed accordingly and wept for the wild geese of Shosho.
The Hour Of Prayer
© Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Child, amidst the flowers at play,
While the red light fades away;
The Blind Reader.
© Robert Crawford
His blindness lends a magic to his fingers,
As if his seeing subtlety were sensed
In them, and his wits left his eyes to work
In the nimble digits as they read for him.
The Answering Machine
© Linda Pastan
I call and hear your voice
on the answering machine
weeks after your death,
a fledgling ghost still longing
for human messages.
The Gouler's Requiem
© Thomas Chatterton
Mie boolie entes, adiewe: ne more the syghte
Of guilden merke shalle mete mie joieous eyne;
The Principles of Concealment
© David Wagoner
If you’re caught in the open
In an exposed position, alone,
The Visitant
© Theodore Roethke
A cloud moved close. The bulk of the wind shifted.
A tree swayed over water.
A voice said:
Stay. Stay by the slip-ooze. Stay.
The Tear
© Richard Crashaw
What bright soft thing is this?
Sweet Mary, the fair eyes’ expense?
A moist spark it is,
A wat’ry diamond; from whence
The very term, I think, was found
The water of a diamond.
The Girls of Tasmania
© Anonymous
The Irishman loves his fair Colleen,
No doubt she is witty and pretty,
But in Ireland I have never been,
So can't judge of his taste for sweet Kitty.
