Poems begining by T
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The Empty Quatrain
© Henry Van Dyke
A flawless cup: how delicate and fine
The flowing curve of every jewelled line!
Look, turn it up or down, 't is perfect still,-
But holds no drop of life's heart-warming wine.
The Mid-day Heat
© Theocritus
Simichidas! whither, pray, hurriest thou
At this mid-day time, when even the lizard
Is sleeping by the dry-stone wall,
Nor do the crested larks wander about?
To His Two Children
© Li Po
In the land of Wu the mulberry leaves are green,
And thrice the silkworms have gone to sleep.
In East Luh where my family stay,
I wonder who is sowing those fields of ours.
"They say priests say "
© Lesbia Harford
They say priests say
That God loves the world.
Maybe he does,
When the dew is pearl'd
The Old Dust
© Li Po
The living is a passing traveler;
The dead, a man come home.
One brief journey betwixt heaven and earth,
Then, alas! we are the same old dust of ten thousand ages.
Time's Shadow
© Mathilde Blind
This hour alone Hope's broken pledges mar,
And joy now gleams before, now in our rear,
Like mirage mocking in some waste afar,
Dissolving into air as we draw near.
Beyond our steps the path is sunny-clear,
The shadow lying only where we are.
Transition
© Dorothy Parker
What if I know, before the Summer goes
Where dwelt this bitter frenzy shall be rest?
What is it now, that June shall surely bring
New promise, with the swallow and the rose?
My heart is water, that I first must breast
The terrible, slow loveliness of Spring.
Thoughts in a Tranquil Night
© Li Po
Athwart the bed
I watch the moonbeams cast a trail
So bright, so cold, so frail,
That for a space it gleams
To Arthur Upson
© William Stanley Braithwaite
How placidly this silent river rolls
Under the midnight stars before our feet,
To The Poet
© Thomas William Heney
WHAT cares the rose if the buds which are its pride
Be plucked for the breast of the dead or the hands of a bride?
The Ghosts' High Noon
© William Schwenck Gilbert
When the night wind howls in the chimney cowls, and the bat in the
moonlight flies,
And inky clouds, like funeral shrouds, sail over the midnight skies -
When the footpads quail at the night-bird's wail, and black dogs
bay the moon,
Then is the spectres' holiday - then is the ghosts' high noon!
ThreeWith the Moon and His Shadow
© Li Po
With a jar of wine I sit by the flowering trees.
I drink alone, and where are my friends?
Ah, the moon above looks down on me;
I call and lift my cup to his brightness.
The Sea-Limits
© Dante Gabriel Rossetti
CONSIDER the sea's listless chime:
Time's self it is, made audible,
The Free Selector (song of 1861)
© Anonymous
Ye sons of industry, to you I belong,
And to you I would dedicate a verse or a song.
Rejoicing o'er the victory John Robertson has won
Now the Land Bill has passed and the good time has come.
Now the Land Bill, etc.
The Best is Good Enough
© James Whitcomb Riley
I quarrel not with destiny,
But make the best of everything-
The best is good enough for me.
The Blues
© Langston Hughes
When the shoe strings break
On both your shoes
And you're in a hurry-
That's the blues.
The Idlers Calendar. Twelve Sonnets For The Months. January
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
COVER SHOOTING
The week at Whinwood next to Christmas week.
Six guns, no more, but all good men and true,
Of the clean--visaged sort, with ruddy cheek
The Weary Blues
© Langston Hughes
Droning a drowsy syncopated tune,
Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon,
I heard a Negro play.
Down on Lenox Avenue the other night
