Poems begining by T
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The Republican Genius of Europe
© Philip Morin Freneau
Emporers and kings! in vain you strive
Your torments to conceal--
The age is come that shakes your thrones,
Tramples in dust despotic crowns,
And bids the sceptre fail.
To the Memory of the Brave Americans
© Philip Morin Freneau
AT Eutaw Springs the valiant died;
Their limbs with dust are covered o'er--
Weep on, ye springs, your tearful tide;
How many heroes are no more!
The Indian Burying Ground
© Philip Morin Freneau
In spite of all the learn'd have said;
I still my old opinion keep,
The posture, that we give the dead,
Points out the soul's eternal sleep.
The Wild Honey-Suckle
© Philip Morin Freneau
Fair flower, that dost so comely grow,
Hid in this silent, dull retreat,
Untouched thy honied blossoms blow,
Unseen thy little branches greet;
...No roving foot shall crush thee here,
...No busy hand provoke a tear.
To Robert Batty, M.D., on His Giving Me a Lock of Milton's Hair
© James Henry Leigh Hunt
There seems a love in hair, though it be dead.
It is the gentlest, yet the strongest thread
Of our frail plant,--a blossom from the tree
Surviving the proud trunk; as if it said,
Patience and gentleness in power. In me
Behold affectionate eternity.
The Woodlands
© William Barnes
O spread ageän your leaves an' flow'rs,
Lwonesome woodlands! zunny woodlands!
The Nile
© James Henry Leigh Hunt
It flows through old hushed Egypt and its sands,
Like some grave mighty thought threading a dream,
And times and things, as in that vision, seem
Keeping along it their eternal stands,--
The Rustic Life.
© Robert Crawford
Happy are ye who can put by the stress
Of so much of the trouble worldlings know;
Ye who seem almost creatures of the woods,
Now animal and now bird-like amid
To the Grasshopper and the Cricket
© James Henry Leigh Hunt
Green little vaulter in the sunny grass,
Catching your heart up at the feel of June,
Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon,
When even the bees lag at the summoning brass;
The Negro Boy
© James Henry Leigh Hunt
These tatter'd clothes, this ice-cold breast
By Winter harden'd into steel,
These eyes, that know not soothing rest,
But speak the half of what I feel!
Long, long, I never new one joy,
The little wand'ring Negro-boy!
To The River Itchin
© William Lisle Bowles
Itchin! when I behold thy banks again,
Thy crumbling margin, and thy silver breast,
Thy Faithfulness, Lord
© Charles Wesley
Thy faithfulness, Lord, Each moment we find,
So true to thy word, So loving and kind!
Thy mercy so tender To all the lost race,
The vilest offender May turn and find grace.
To J. M.
© George Meredith
Let Fate or Insufficiency provide
Mean ends for men who what they are would be:
Toowoomba
© George Essex Evans
Dark purple, chased with sudden gloom and glory,
Like waves in wild unrest,
To A Star
© Percy Bysshe Shelley
Sweet star, which gleaming o'er the darksome scene
Through fleecy clouds of silvery radiance fliest,
Spanglet of light on evening's shadowy veil,
Which shrouds the day-beam from the waveless lake,
The Copperhead (1864)
© Francis Bret Harte
There is peace in the swamp where the Copperhead sleeps,
Where the waters are stagnant, the white vapor creeps,
Where the musk of Magnolia hangs thick in the air,
And the lilies` phylacteries broaden in prayer.
The Spring In Ireland: 1916
© James Brunton Stephens
In other lands they may,
With public joy or dole along the way,
With pomp and pageantry and loud lament
Of drums and trumpets, and with merriment
Of grateful hearts, lead into rest and sted
The nation's dead.
The Island of Skyros
© John Masefield
Here, where we stood together, we three men,
Before the war had swept us to the East
Three thousand miles away, I stand again
And hear the bells, and breathe, and go to feast.
Tewkesbury Road
© John Masefield
IT is good to be out on the road, and going one knows not where,
Going through meadow and village, one knows not whither or why;
Through the grey light drift of the dust, in the keen cool rush of the air,
Under the flying white clouds, and the broad blue lift of the sky.
The Passing Strange
© John Masefield
Out of the earth to rest or range
Perpetual in perpetual change,
The unknown passing through the strange.
