Poems begining by T
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The Sensitive Plant
© Percy Bysshe Shelley
PART 1.
A Sensitive Plant in a garden grew,
And the young winds fed it with silver dew,
And it opened its fan-like leaves to the light.
And closed them beneath the kisses of Night.
To A Lady That Desired Me I Would Beare My Part With Her In
© Richard Lovelace
This is the prittiest motion:
Madam, th' alarums of a drumme
That cals your lord, set to your cries,
To mine are sacred symphonies.
The Murmuring of the Brooklet
© Theocritus
Sweeter, good shepherd, thy song
Than yonder gliding down of waters
From the rock above.
The Tomb of Edgar Allan Poe
© Stéphane Mallarme
Such as at last eternity transforms into Himself,
The Poet rouses with two-edged naked sword,
His century terrified at having ignored
Death triumphant in so strange a voice!
The Lily of The Valley
© George MacDonald
There is not any weed but hath its shower,
There is not any pool but hath its star;
The Net
© Sara Teasdale
I MADE you many and many a song,
Yet never one told all you are
It was as though a net of words
Were flung to catch a star;
The House Of Falling Leaves
© William Stanley Braithwaite
If change and fate and hapless circumstance
May baffle and perplex the moaning sea,
And day and night in alternate advance
Still hold the primal Reasoning in fee,
Cannot my Grief be strong enough to chance
My voice across the tide I cannot see?
The Trance
© Stephen Spender
Restless, you turn to me and press
Those timid words against my ear
Which thunder at my heart like stones.
"Mercy," you plead, Then "Who can bless?"
You ask. "I am pursued by Time," you moan.
The True Liberal
© Robert Fuller Murray
The truest Liberal is he
Who sees the man in each degree,
Who merit in a churl can prize,
And baseness in an earl despise,
Yet censures baseness in a churl,
And dares find merit in an earl.
The Martyr
© Herman Melville
(Indicative of the Passion of the People
on the 15th Day of April, 1865)
* * *
The Cottage On The Hill
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
ON a steep hillside, to all airs that blow,
Open, and open to the varying sky,
Our cottage homestead, smiling tranquilly,
Catches morn's earliest and eve's latest glow;
To----
© James Russell Lowell
We, too, have autumns, when our leaves
Drop loosely through the dampened air,
When all our good seems bound in sheaves,
And we stand reaped and bare.
The Battle Of Ivry
© Thomas Babbington Macaulay
Now glory to the Lord of hosts, from whom all glories are!
And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre!
"They Shall Come Home"
© Roderic Quinn
ALTHOUGH they sleep in alien graves afar,
Where, restlessly, chill winds we know not roam,
When Peace has laid the cruel waves of war
They shall come home!
The Swallows
© Robert Fuller Murray
From Jean Pierre Claris Florian
I love to see the swallows come
At my window twittering,
Bringing from their southern home
The Brus Book III
© John Barbour
[The lord of Lorn attacks the king's men]
The lord off Lorne wonnyt thar-by
The Melancholy Year Is Dead with Rain
© Trumbull Stickney
The melancholy year is dead with rain.
Drop after drop on every branch pursues.
