Poems begining by T
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The Old Garden
© George MacDonald
I stood in an ancient garden
With high red walls around;
Over them grey and green lichens
In shadowy arabesque wound.
The Boat On The Serchio
© Percy Bysshe Shelley
Our boat is asleep on Serchio's stream,
Its sails are folded like thoughts in a dream,
The helm sways idly, hither and thither;
Dominic, the boatman, has brought the mast,
And the oars, and the sails; but tis sleeping fast,
Like a beast, unconscious of its tether.
The Looking-Glass. : on Mrs. Pulteney
© Alexander Pope
With scornful mien, and various toss of air,
Fantastic vain, and insolently fair,
The Triumph of Dead : Chap. 1
© Mary Sidney Herbert
That gallant lady, gloriously bright,
The stately pillar once of worthiness,
"The Memory Of Joys That Are Past." Ossian.
© Felicia Dorothea Hemans
THERE is an hour, a pensive hour;
(And oh! how dear its soothing pow'r!)
It is, when twilight spreads her veil,
And steals along the silent dale;
The Romaunt of Margret (excerpts)
© Elizabeth Barrett Browning
But better loveth he
Thy chaliced wine than thy chanted song,
And better both than thee,
Margret, Margret.
The Congregation
© Gamaliel Bradford
The ghost of night's long hours depart
In congregation dreary,
And leave my sorrow-trampled heart
Intolerably weary.
The House Of Dust: Part 02: 03
© Conrad Aiken
The warm sun dreams in the dust, the warm sun falls
On bright red roofs and walls;
The Wish Of To-Day
© John Greenleaf Whittier
I ask not now for gold to gild
With mocking shine a weary frame;
The yearning of the mind is stilled,
I ask not now for Fame.
The Towers of Time
© Gilbert Keith Chesterton
(There is never a crack in the ivory tower
Or a hinge to groan in the house of gold
Or a leaf of the rose in the wind to wither
And she grows young as the world grows old.
A Woman clothed with the sun returning
to clothe the sun when the sun is cold.)
To A Light Housekeeper
© Franklin Pierce Adams
These I mutely stand for
Though the sight offend,
THIS I reprimand for;
Take it from a friend:
The Hanging Man
© Sylvia Plath
By the roots of my hair some god got hold of me.
I sizzled in his blue volts like a desert prophet.
The Ladder Of St. Augustine. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The First)
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Saint Augustine! well hast thou said,
That of our vices we can frame
The City Bird
© Louisa Lawson
A city bird once in a desperate rage
Threw over the bars of his screen
The whole of the seed that was put in his cage,
And it grew to a miniature green.
Triad
© Adelaide Crapsey
These be
three silent things:
The falling snow . . . the hour
Before the dawn . . . the mouth of one
Just dead.
The Tryst
© Walter de la Mare
A music wistful for the sea-nymph's sake:
Haply Elijah, o'er his spokes of fire,
Cresting steep Leo, or the heavenly Lyre,
Spied, tranced in azure of inanest space,
Some eyrie hostel, meet for human grace,
Where two might happy be just you and I
The New Moon
© Sara Teasdale
DAY, you have bruised and beaten me,
As rain beats down the bright, proud sea,
Beaten my body, bruised my soul,
Left me nothing lovely or whole
