Poems begining by T
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The Wisdom of the Spheres
© Piet Hein
How instructive
is a star!
It can teach us
from afar
just how small
each other are.
The Days Of Our Youth
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
These are the days of our youth, our days of glory and honour.
Pleasure begotten of strength is ours, the sword in our hand.
Wisdom bends to our will, we lead captivity captive,
Kings of our lives and love, receiving gifts from men.
To A Certain Cantatrice
© Walt Whitman
HERE, take this gift!
I was reserving it for some hero, speaker, or General,
To A Young Poet
© Edna St. Vincent Millay
Time cannot break the bird's wing from the bird.
Bird and wing together
Go down, one feather.
The Recalcitrants
© Thomas Hardy
Let us off and search, and find a place
Where yours and mine can be natural lives,
Where no one comes who dissects and dives
And proclaims that ours is a curious case,
That its touch of romance can scarcely grace.
The Princess: A Medley: Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal
© Alfred Tennyson
Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,
And slips into the bosom of the lake:
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip
Into my bosom and be lost in me.
The Peace of God
© John Le Gay Brereton
So, in the bitter years when love and age
Sneered at the youth whose sturdy heart withheld
His hand from slaughter, till, in desperate plight,
He flung into the trampling equipage,
I have heard him mutter, as the music swelled,
The peace of God is on me. They were right.
The Hands That Hang Down
© Ada Cambridge
O Lord, I am so tired!
My heart is sick and sore.
I work, and work, and do no good-
And I can try no more!
The Duellist - Book I
© Charles Churchill
The clock struck twelve; o'er half the globe
Darkness had spread her pitchy robe:
The Heart of the Swag
© Henry Lawson
Oh, the track through the scrub groweth ever more dreary,
And lower and lower his grey head doth bow;
The "Story Of Ida"
© John Greenleaf Whittier
Weary of jangling noises never stilled,
The skeptic's sneer, the bigot's hate, the din
Tale
© Arthur Rimbaud
The Prince and the Genie annihilated each other probably in essential health.
How could they have helped dying of it?
Together then they died.
But this Prince died in his palace at an ordinary age,
the Prince was the Genie, the Genie was the Prince.--
There is no sovereign music for our desire.
The Moralizer Corrected. A Tale
© William Cowper
A hermit (or if chance you hold
That title now too trite and old),
The Three Bells
© John Greenleaf Whittier
BENEATH the low-hung night cloud
That raked her splintering mast
The good ship settled slowly,
The cruel leak gained fast.
To My Sister: On Her Twenty-First Birthday
© George MacDonald
Old fables are not all a lie
That tell of wondrous birth,
Of Titan children, father Sky,
And mighty mother Earth.
