Poems begining by T
/ page 564 of 916 /
The Dark, Blue Sea
© George Gordon Byron
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
The Jew
© Jones Very
Thou art more deadly than the Jew of old,
Thou hast his weapons hidden in thy speech;
The Fiftieth Birthday Of Agassiz. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The First)
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
It was fifty years ago
In the pleasant month of May,
In the beautiful Pays de Vaud,
A child in its cradle lay.
The Brook
© Madison Julius Cawein
To it the forest tells
The mystery that haunts its heart and folds
The Bride Of The Nile - Act II
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Belkís. I cannot do these sums
So long before the date. In the meanwhile talk to me.
I want to be amused. Life will go drearily
If we are to be like this. Let us play at something--chess,
Or draughts, or dominoes. Ask me a thing to guess--
An intellectual game.
To the Queen at Oxford
© Henry King
Great Lady! That thus quite against our use,
We speak your welcome by an English Muse,
And in a vulgar tongue our zeales contrive,
Is to confess your large prerogative,
The Yankee Volunteers
© William Makepeace Thackeray
"A surgeon of the United States' army says that on inquiring of
the Captain of his company, he found that NINE-TENTHS of the men
had enlisted on account of some female difficulty."Morning Paper.
To Thomas Moore, Esq.
© Frances Anne Kemble
Here's a health to thee, Bard of Erin!
To the goblet's brim we will fill;
Thy Will Be Done
© John Greenleaf Whittier
WE see not, know not; all our way
Is night, with Thee alone is day:
The Borough. Letter II: The Church
© George Crabbe
"WHAT is a Church?"--Let Truth and Reason speak,
They would reply, "The faithful, pure, and meek;
To Papa
© Louisa May Alcott
In high Olympus' sacred shade
A gift Minerva wrought
For her beloved philosopher
Immersed in deepest thought.
The Stockmen of Australia
© Anonymous
The stockmen of Australia, what rowdy boys are they,
They will curse and swear a hurricane if you come in their way.
They dash along the forest on black, bay, brown, or grey,
And the stockmen of Australia, hard-riding boys are they.
The Games We Used To Play
© George Ade
I long and sigh for the days gone by,
I pine for the rustic charm
Of the dear old games, the queer old games
We played down on the farm.
To ----, With A Rose
© Sidney Lanier
I asked my heart to say
Some word whose worth my love's devoir might pay
Upon my Lady's natal day.
To my honoured Friend Mr. George Sandys
© Henry King
It is, Sir, a confest intrusion here
That I before your labours do appear,
Which no loud Herald need, that may proclaim
Or seek acceptance, but the Authors fame.
The Promise
© Robert Laurence Binyon
What wonder of what hope do you enfold,
Whose eyes are all filled with futurity?
What shape of more than beauty would you mould
With desire's strength out of the dim to--be?
The Old Stockman's Lament
© Henry Lawson
Wrap me up in me stockwhip and blanket,
And bury me deep down below,
To The Life Eternal
© George MacDonald
Thou art my thought, my heart, my being's fortune,
The search for thee my growth's first conscious date;
For nought, for everything, I thee importune;
Thou art my all, my origin and fate!
The Wedding Day
© Alaric Alexander Watts
The last! the last! the last!
Oh, by that little word,
How many thoughts are stirred! ~ CAROLINE SOUTHEY.
