Poems begining by T
/ page 562 of 916 /
The Fakeham Ghost
© Robert Bloomfield
The Lawns were dry in Euston Park;
(Here Truth inspires my Tale)
The lonely footpath, still and dark,
Led over Hill and Dale.
To the Memory of Demon
© Boris Pasternak
Used to come in the blue
Of the glacier, at night, from Tamara.
With his wingtips he drew
Where the nightmares should boom, where to bar them.
The Ghost's Leavetaking
© Sylvia Plath
Enter the chilly no-man's land of about
Five o'clock in the morning, the no-color void
Where the waking head rubbishes out the draggled lot
Of sulfurous dreamscapes and obscure lunar conundrums
Which seemed, when dreamed, to mean so profoundly much,
The Runaway Boy
© James Whitcomb Riley
Wunst I sassed my Pa, an' he
Won't stand that, an' punished me,--
Nen when he was gone that day,
I slipped out an' runned away.
The Epistle Of Grace Sent To The Seek Man
© Thomas Hoccleve
I' Gracë quen, and heuenly princesse, As depute be the souereyn kyng eterne,In erthe a-lowe to be the gyderesseThat liste the redy wey[ë]s for to lerne,In pilgrymagë him selff to gouerne Gretyng, with yerde & lore of disciplyne,To the that hast, and must be, one of myn.
It is me don to knowe & vnderstonde, Þat, this dethës seruaunt, malady,The hath arrest, and holdith now in hande,And the oppressith, nought knowyng the forwhi.I wil therfore, as for thi remedy, Ordeyne[n] in my best[ë] manere wise;I rede þe that thi self þou wel aduyse.
The Wreath
© Dora Sigerson Shorter
[EASTER, ] Here on my path by some hard fate struck down,
When life at last held out full hands to me.
To Epicharmus
© Theocritus
Read these lines to Epicharmus. They are Dorian, as was he
The sire of Comedy.
Of his proper self bereaved, Bacchus, unto thee we rear
His brazen image here;
To The Obelisk
© Mathilde Blind
Now reared beside out Thames so wintry grey,
Where blocks of ice drift with the drifting stream,
Thou risest o'er the alien prospect! Say,
Yon dull, blear, rayless orb whose lurid gleam
Tinges the snow-draped ships and writhing steam,
Is this the sun which fired thine orient day?
To The Roaring Wind
© Wallace Stevens
What syllable are you seeking,
Vocalissimus,
In the distances of sleep?
Speak it.
The Saints Ascend To Heaven
© Michael Wigglesworth
The Saints behold with courage bold, and thankful wonderment.
To see all those that were their foes thus sent to punishment:
Then do they sing unto their King a Song of endless Praise:
They praise his Name, and do proclaim that just are all his ways.
There Is Pleasure In The Pathless Woods
© George Gordon Byron
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
The Spanish Chapel
© Felicia Dorothea Hemans
I made a mountain-brook my guide
Thro' a wild Spanish glen,
And wandered, on its grassy side,
Far from the homes of men.
The Moat
© Mathilde Blind
The very sunlight hushed within the close,
Sleeps indolently by the Yew's slow shade;
Still as a relic some old Master made
The jewelled peacock's rich enamel glows;
And on yon mossy wall that youthful rose
Blooms like a rose that never means to fade.
The March Into Viriginia
© Herman Melville
But some who this blithe mood present,
As on in lightsome files they fare,
Shall die experienced ere three days are spent -
Perish, enlightened by the vollied glare;
Or shame survive, and, like to adamant,
The throe of Second Manassas share.
The Soldier
© Jones Very
He was not armed like those of eastern clime,
Whose heavy axes felled their heathen foe;
The War Sonnets: III The Dead
© Rupert Brooke
Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead!
There's none of these so lonely and poor of old,
But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold.
These laid the world away; poured out the red
