Poems begining by T
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The Choice
© Emma Lazarus
I saw in dream the spirits unbegot,
Veiled, floating phantoms, lost in twilight space;
The Path
© Paul Laurence Dunbar
THERE are no beaten paths to Glory's height,
There are no rules to compass greatness known;
To G.A.G.
© Charles Kingsley
A hasty jest I once let fall-
As jests are wont to be, untrue-
As if the sum of joy to you
Were hunt and picnic, rout and ball.
The Slave's Complaint
© George Moses Horton
Something still my heart surveys,
Groping through this dreary maze;
Is it Hope? - then burn and blaze
Forever!
The Dree Woaks
© William Barnes
By the brow o' thik hangèn I spent all my youth,
In the house that did peep out between
The Widow With The Two Mites
© George MacDonald
Here much and little shift and change,
With scale of need and time;
There more and less have meanings strange,
Which the world cannot rime.
The New Woman.
© Arthur Henry Adams
THE stone that all the sullen centuries,
With sluggish hands and massive fingers rude,
Against the sepulchre of womanhood
Had sternly held, she has thrust back with ease,
To The Sun God
© Friedrich Hölderlin
Where are you? Drunk, my mind becomes
Twilight after all your ecstasy. For I just saw
How the enrapturing young god,
Tired from his journey,
To a Lady on Her Coming to North-America
© Phillis Wheatley
"Waft me, ye gales, from this malignant shore;
"The Northern milder climes I long to greet,
"There hope that health will my arrival meet."
Soon as she spoke in my ideal view
The winds assented, and the vessel flew.
The Yellow Violet
© William Cullen Bryant
When beechen buds begin to swell,
And woods the blue-bird's warble know,
The yellow violet's modest bell
Peeps from last-year's leaves below.
The Passing Of The Century
© Alfred Austin
How shall we comfort the Dying Year?
Beg him to linger, or bid him go?
To Sir Henry Goodyere
© John Donne
WHO makes the last a pattern for next year,
Turns no new leaf, but still the same things reads ;
Seen things he sees again, heard things doth hear,
And makes his life but like a pair of beads.
The Wolf And The Lamb
© Dora Sigerson Shorter
She had hair gold as her father's corn;
She tripped and sung,
The Last Caesar
© Thomas Bailey Aldrich
In the Elysée, and had lost the day
But that around him flocked his birds of prey,
Sharp-beaked, voracious, hungry for the deed.
'Twixt hope and fear beheld great Cæsar hang!
Meanwhile, methinks, a ghostly laughter rang
Through the rotunda of the Invalides.
The Future Of Hands
© Larry Levis
And writing this,
I stare at my hands,
Which are the chroniclers of my death,
Which pull me into this paper
Each night, as onto a bed of silk sheets,
And the woman gone.
The Larks Nest
© Charlotte Turner Smith
"TRUST only to thyself;" the maxim's sound;
For, tho' life's choicest blessing be a friend,
The Cathedral tombs
© Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
THEY lie, with upraised hands, and feet
Stretched like dead feet that walk no more,
And stony masks oft human sweet,
As if the olden look each wore,
Familiar curves of lip and eye,
Were wrought by some fond memory.
