Poems begining by T
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The Dreamer
© Paul Laurence Dunbar
Temples he built and palaces of air,
And, with the artist's parent-pride aglow,
His fancy saw his vague ideals grow
Into creations marvellously fair;
The Shepherd's Wife's Song
© Robert Greene
His flocks are folded; he comes home at night
As merry as a king in his delight,
And merrier, too:
For kings bethink them what the state require,
Where shepherds, careless, carol by the fire:
The Child's Music Lesson
© Archibald Lampman
Why weep ye in your innocent toil at all?
Sweet little hands, why halt and tremble so?
The Abandoned
© Mathilde Blind
SHE sat by the wayside and wept, where roses, red roses and white,
Lay wasted and withered and sere, like her life and its ruined delight;
Like chaff blown about in the wind whirled roses, white roses and red,
And pale, on night's threshold, the moon bent over the day that was dead.
The Steamboat
© Oliver Wendell Holmes
See how yon flaming herald treads
The ridged and rolling waves,
Twist Ye, Twine Ye
© Sir Walter Scott
Twist ye, twine ye! even so,
Mingle shades of joy and woe,
Hope, and fear, and peace, and strife,
In the thread of human life.
The Hand In The Dark
© Ada Cambridge
How calm the spangled city spread below!
How cool the night! How fair the starry skies!
How sweet the dewy breezes! But I know
What, under all their seeming beauty, lies.
The Shag
© Celia Thaxter
"What is that great bird, sister, tell me,
Perched high on the top of the crag?"
"'T is the cormorant, dear little brother;
The fishermen call it the shag."
The Princess (part 6)
© Alfred Tennyson
My dream had never died or lived again.
As in some mystic middle state I lay;
Seeing I saw not, hearing not I heard:
Though, if I saw not, yet they told me all
So often that I speak as having seen.
To Emerson. On His 77th Birthday.
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
AH! what to him our trivial praise or blame,
Who through long years hath raised half-mournful eyes
Yearning to mark some heaven-descended flame
Light his soul's altar rife with sacrifice?
The Daemon Of The World
© Percy Bysshe Shelley
Nec tantum prodere vati,
Quantum scire licet. Venit aetas omnis in unam
Congeriem, miserumque premunt tot saecula pectus.
The Devil Of Pope-Fig Island
© Jean de La Fontaine
ON t'other hand an island may be seen,
Where all are hated, cursed, and full of spleen.
We know them by the thinness of their face
Long sleep is quite excluded from their race.
The Angels' Song. Honour To Jesus.
© Thomas Hoccleve
Honured be thu, blisful lord Ihesu, and preysed mote thu be in eueri place,So full of myght, [of] mercy and vertue,Of blisse, of bounte, of piete and of grace!Who is honurë, may no thing deface; Who is [ther] that withstondë may thi myght?But servë the, of fors mote eueri wight.
Honúred be thu, Ihesu, heven kyng, That hast be-taken to my gouernaunce Suche one that hath, a-bove al othire thing,Abowed to the with lowely obeysaunce,And loued the with sadde perséueraunce, Thi counseil and thin hey comaundëmentObseruyng with his hertely hool entent.
The Sheep and The Goat
© George MacDonald
The thousand streets of London gray
Repel all country sights;
But bar not winds upon their way,
Nor quench the scent of new-mown hay
In depth of summer nights.
The Knotting Song
© Sir Charles Sedley
"Hears not my Phyllis how the birds
Their feathered mates salute?
They tell their passion in their words:
Must I alone be mute?"
Phyllis, without frown or smile,
Sat and knotted all the while.
The Crane
© Hovhannes Toumanian
The Crane has lost his way across the heaven,
From yonder stormy cloud I hear him cry,
A traveller a'er an unknown pathway driven,
In a cold world unheeded he doth fly.
The Lost Thrill
© James Whitcomb Riley
I grow so weary, someway, of all things
That love and loving have vouchsafed to me,
The Greatest Gift
© Blanche Edith Baughan
IF of us two might only one be glad,
Pain Id pursue, and struggle to be sad.
If of us two one only might be great,
Safely obscure Id triumph in my fate.
O Soul more dear than mine! if of us two
One only might love God, it should be you.
