Poems begining by T
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The Wounded Eagle
© Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Eagle! this is not thy sphere!
Warrior-bird, what seek'st thou here?
The Khalif And The Arab
© Madison Julius Cawein
Provoked, astonished, wrinkled angrily,
Hissed Hisham, "Slave! thou know'st me not I see!"
Calmly the youth, "Aye, verily I know,
O mannerless! thy tongue hath told me so,
Thy tongue commanding ere it spake me _peace_--
Soon art thou known, nor late may knowledge cease."
The Cemetary Of Eylau
© Victor Marie Hugo
This to my elder brothers, schoolboys gay,
Was told by Uncle Louis on a day;
Tale XIII
© George Crabbe
hall,
Sires, sons, and sons of sons, were buried all,
She then abounded, and had wealth to spare
For softening grief she once was doom'd to share;
Thus train'd in misery's school, and taught to
The Golf Ball and the Loan
© Robert Fuller Murray
I drove a golf-ball into the air;
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.
The Song Of Graces Of Alle Seintes Upon Paske Day.
© Thomas Hoccleve
HOnured be thu, blisfull lord a-bove, That vowchidsaffë this iourny to take,Man to become, only for man-is love,And deth to suffre, for my synnës sake;So hast thu vs owt of the bondë schake, Of Sathanas, þat held us longe in peyne:Honured be thu, Ihesu souereyne!
Full evele I dede, whan I the appil took; I wend to haue had therbi prosperite;It satte so ny my sidës, þat thei ooke;To greet myschief I fill from hey degre,And alle my issue, for be-cause of me; Now hast þou, lord, restored all a-geyn:Honured be thu, Ihesu souereyne!
The Chapel of the Hermits
© John Greenleaf Whittier
"I do believe, and yet, in grief,
I pray for help to unbelief;
For needful strength aside to lay
The daily cumberings of my way.
The spring-it had simply been you
© Boris Pasternak
The spring-it had simply been you,
And so, to a certain extent,
The summer; but autumn-this scandalous blue
Of wallpaper? Rubbish and felt?
The Pastime of Pleasure : The First Part.
© Stephen Hawes
Here begynneth the passe tyme of pleasure.
Ryyght myghty prynce / & redoubted souerayne
Saylynge forthe well / in the shyppe of grace
Ouer the wawes / of this lyfe vncertayne
To The Rev. Mr. Newton : An Invitation Into The Country
© William Cowper
The swallows in their torpid state
Compose their useless wing,
And bees in hives as idly wait
The call of early spring.
To Lucy, Countess of Bedford, with John Donne's Satires
© Benjamin Jonson
Lucy, you brightness of our sphere, who are
Life of the Muses' day, their morning star!
The Robber Bridegroom
© Allen Tate
(I have watched them come bright girls
Out of the rising sun, with curls)
The stair is tall the cellar deep
The wind coughs in the halls
The Mean Husband
© Confucius
Thin cloth of dolichos supplies the shoes,
In which some have to brave the frost and cold.
A bride, when poor, her tender hands must use,
Her dress to make, and the sharp needle hold.
This man is wealthy, yet he makes his bride
Collars and waistbands for his robes provide.
The Sly One
© Arthur Rimbaud
In the brown dining-room,
which was perfumed
with the scent of polish and fruit,
I was shoveling up at my ease
a plateful of some Belgian dish
or other, and sprawling in my enormous chair.
The Force Of Prayer, Or, The Founding Of Bolton, A Tradition
© William Wordsworth
"What is good for a bootless bene?"
With these dark words begins my Tale;
And their meaning is, whence can comfort spring
When Prayer is of no avail?
To Mr. Murray
© George Gordon Byron
To hook the reader, you, John Murray,
Have publish'd 'Anjou's Margaret,
Which won't be sold off in a hurry
(At least, it has not been as yet);
The Test
© Edgar Albert Guest
You can brag about the famous men you know;
You may boast about the great men you have met,
The Mystery
© Paul Laurence Dunbar
I WAS not; now I am a few days hence
I shall not be; I fain would look before
The Black Preacher: A Breton Legend
© James Russell Lowell
Something like this, then, my guide had to tell,
Perched on a saint cracked across when he fell;
But since I might chance give his meaning a wrench,
He talking his _patois_ and I English-French,
I'll put what he told me, preserving the tone,
In a rhymed prose that makes it half his, half my own.
