Poems begining by T
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The Victoria, Lost Off Tripoli, June,1893
© Robert Laurence Binyon
Heroes, whose days are told,
Above whose bodies brave
Presses the heavy, cold,
And quenching wave!
The Cost Of Praise
© Edgar Albert Guest
THIS morning came a man to me, his smile was wonderful to see,
He shook my hand and doffed his hat then promptly took a chair;
To A Vers Librist
© Franklin Pierce Adams
"Oh bard," I said, "your verse is free;
The shackles that encumber me,
The fetters that are my obsession,
Are never gyves to your expression.
To A Butterfly
© William Wordsworth
STAY near me--do not take thy flight!
A little longer stay in sight!
To William Camden
© Benjamin Jonson
Camden, most reverend head, to whom I owe
All that I am in arts, all that I know
The Choir At Pixley
© Edgar Albert Guest
The choir we had in Pixley wasn't much for looks an' styles,
But today if I could hear it I would walk a hundred miles;
Two Rondels
© George MacDonald
Then I must to my arms and fight-
Catch up my shield and two-edged sword,
The words of him who is thy word-
Nor cease till they are put to flight;
Then in the mid-sea of the night
I turn and listen for thee, Lord.
To Hilaire Belloc
© Gilbert Keith Chesterton
For every tiny town or place
God made the stars especially;
To Vittoria Colonna. (Sonnet V.)
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Lady, how can it chance--yet this we see
In long experience--that will longer last
To Mrs. S---. Written In My Sickness.
© Mary Barber
Dear Psyche, come, with chearful Face,
And bless this desolated Place.
O come! my sickly Couch attend,
And ease the Anguish of your Friend.
Things
© Aline Murray Kilmer
SOMETIMES when I am at tea with you
I catch my breath
At a thought that is old as the world is old
And more bitter than death.
The Bush Fire
© Charles Harpur
What this might be he wonderedbut not long;
Divining soon the causea vast Bush Fire!
But deeming it too distant yet for harm,
During the night betiding, to repose
With his bed-faring household he retired.
The Pay Envelope
© Edgar Albert Guest
Is it all in the envelope holding your pay?
Is that all you're working for day after day?
Are you getting no more from your toil than the gold
That little enclosure of paper will hold?
Is that all you're after; is that all you seek?
Does that close the deal at the end of the week?
The Woodland Hallo
© Robert Bloomfield
In our cottage, that peeps from the skirts of the wood,
I am mistress, no mother have I;
The Sorry Hostess
© Edgar Albert Guest
She said she was sorry the weather was bad
The night that she asked us to dine;
Twenty Days
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Twenty days are barely gone,
I was merry all the day.
Folly was my butt of scorn.
Now the fool myself I play.
To The Poet Cowper, On His Recovery From An Indisposition
© Charles Lamb
WRITTEN SOME TIME BACK.
Cowper, I thank my God that thou art healed.
The Boss's Boots
© Henry Lawson
The shearing super sprained his foot, as bosses sometimes do
And wore, until the shed cut out, one side-spring and one shoe;
And though he changed his pants at timessome worn-out and some neat
No tiger there could possibly mistake the Bosss feet.
The Bee-Boy's Song
© Rudyard Kipling
Bees! Bees! Hark to your bees!
"Hide from your neighbours as much as you please,
But all that has happened, to us you must tell,
Or else we will give you no honey to sell!"
