Poems begining by T
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The Hunter
© Ellis Parker Butler
A full-fledged gun cannot endure
The trifling of an amateur;
Poor marksmanship its temper spoils
And this is why the gun recoils.
To Mr Brown On His Book Against T---
© Thomas Parnell
Giddy wth fond ambition, mad wth pride,
Apostate angells once ev'n heavn defi'de;
Avenging heavn its hottest bolts prepard,
And hell and thunder provd their sad reward.
The Painter Dreaming in the Scholar’s House
© Howard Nemerov
The painter’s eye follows relation out.
His work is not to paint the visible,
He says, it is to render visible.
The New Man
© Jones Very
THE hands must touch and handle many things,
The eyes long waste their glances all in vain;
The Image In Lava
© Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Thou thing of years departed!
What ages have gone by,
Since here the mournful seal was set
By love and agony!
The Bard
© Vasily Andreyevich Zhukovsky
My friends, can you descry that mound of earth
Above clear waters in the shade of trees?
To A Poet Of Quality. Praising The Lady Hinchinbroke
© Matthew Prior
Of thy judicious Muse's sense,
Young Hinchinbroke so very proud is,
That Sacharissa and Hortense
She looks henceforth upon as dowdies.
The Long Evenings of Their Leavetakings
© Eavan Boland
My mother was married by the water.
She wore a gray coat and a winter rose.
To Mr. Pope
© Thomas Parnell
To praise, and still with just respect to praise
A Bard triumphant in immortal bays,
The Learn'd to show, the Sensible commend,
Yet still preserve the province of the Friend,
What life, what vigour must the lines require?
What Music tune them, what affection fire?
To Helen
© Edgar Allan Poe
Helen, thy beauty is to me
Like those Nicéan barks of yore,
That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,
The weary, way-worn wanderer bore
To his own native shore.
The Rolling English Road
© Gilbert Keith Chesterton
Before the Roman came to Rye or out to Severn strode,
The rolling English drunkard made the rolling English road.
A reeling road, a rolling road, that rambles round the shire,
And after him the parson ran, the sexton and the squire;
A merry road, a mazy road, and such as we did tread
The night we went to Birmingham by way of Beachy Head.
The Dying Hunter to his Dog
© Susanna Moodie
Lie down—lie down!—my noble hound,
That joyful bark give o’er;
The Love Sonnets Of Proteus. Part IV: Vita Nova: LXXXV
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
THE SAME CONTINUED
These flowers shall be my offering, living flowers
Which here shall die with you in sacrifice,
Flowers from the empty fields which once were yours
The Book Of Paradise - The Seven Sleepers
© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
And the sheep-dog will not leave them,--
Scared away, his foot all-mangled,
To his master still he presses,
And he joins the hidden party,
Joins the favorites of slumber.
The Bridal of the Year
© Denis Florence MacCarthy
Yes! the Summer is returning,
Warmer, brighter beams are burning
To Robin Redbreast
© George Meredith
Merrily 'mid the faded leaves,
O Robin of the bright red breast!
To John Clare
© John Clare
Well, honest John, how fare you now at home?
The spring is come, and birds are building nests;
The Little Town O' Tailholt
© James Whitcomb Riley
You kin boast about yer cities, and their stiddy growth and size,
And brag about yer County-seats, and business enterprise,
And railroads, and factories, and all sich foolery--
But the little Town o' Tailholt is big enough fer me!
