Poems begining by T
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The Failing Track
© George MacDonald
Where went the feet that hitherto have come?
Here yawns no gulf to quench the flowing past!
With lengthening pauses broke, the path grows dumb;
The grass floats in; the gazer stands aghast.
To A Dog
© John Jay Chapman
PAST happiness dissolves. It fades away,
Ghost-like, in that dim attic of the mind
"The Stars Are With The Voyager"
© Thomas Hood
The stars are with the voyager
Wherever he may sail;
The moon is constant to her time;
The sun will never fail;
Times Weariness
© Alfred Austin
Slow Time, that carrieth such a monstrous load
From every stage and hostel of the Past,
The Ballad Of Mr. Cooke
© Francis Bret Harte
(LEGEND OF THE CLIFF HOUSE, SAN FRANCISCO)
Where the sturdy ocean breeze
Tartufe's Punishment
© Arthur Rimbaud
Raking, raking, his amorous thoughts
underneath his chaste robe of black,
The Prisoners Of Naples
© John Greenleaf Whittier
I HAVE been thinking of the victims bound
In Naples, dying for the lack of air
And sunshine, in their close, damp cells of pain,
Where hope is not, and innocence in vain
Thick-headed Thoughts: Part 1
© Adam Lindsay Gordon
I've something of the bull-dog in my breed,
The spaniel is developed somewhat less;
The House Of The Commonwealth
© Roderic Quinn
We sent a word across the seas that said,
"The house is finished and the doors are wide,
Come, enter in.
A stately house it is, with tables spread,
Where men in liberty and love abide
With hearts akin.
The Voyage Of St. Brendan A.D. 545 - The Buried City
© Denis Florence MacCarthy
Beside that giant stream that foams and swells
Betwixt Hy-Conaill and Moyarta's shore,
And guards the isle where good Senanus dwells,
A gentle maiden dwelt in days of yore.
The Heathen Pass-ee
© Arthur Clement Hilton
Which I wish to remark,
And my language is plain,
That for plots that are dark
And not always in vain,
The heathen Pass-ee is peculiar,
And the same I would rise to explain.
To Pius IX
© John Greenleaf Whittier
THE cannon's brazen lips are cold;
No red shell blazes down the air;
And street and tower, and temple old,
Are silent as despair.
The Black Rock
© John Gould Fletcher
Off the long headland, threshed about by round-backed breakers,
There is a black rock, standing high at the full tide;
Off the headland there is emptiness,
And the moaning of the ocean,
And the black rock standing alone.
The Battle of the Summer Islands : Canto 1
© Edmund Waller
Aid me, Bellona, while the dreadful fight
Betwixt a nation and two whales I write.
Seas stained with gore I sing, adventurous toil,
And how these monsters did disarm an isle.
The Detective
© Sylvia Plath
What was she doing when it blew in
Over the seven hills, the red furrow, the blue mountain?
Was she arranging cups? It is important.
Was she at the window, listening?
In that valley the train shrieks echo like souls on hooks.
The King Of The Plow
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
THE sword is re-sheathed in its scabbard,
The rifle hangs safe on the wall;
No longer we quail at the hungry
Hot rush of the ravenous ball,
(To James R. Lawson) 1946
© John Gould Fletcher
Over the scattered trees, over the sunbrowned meadow,
The bells wove their rhythm of delicate, proud, airborne music;
