Poems begining by T
/ page 635 of 916 /
The Rosary
© Joyce Kilmer
Not on the lute, nor harp of many strings
Shall all men praise the Master of all song.
Our life is brief, one saith, and art is long;
And skilled must be the laureates of kings.
The Lady and the Tramp by Bruce Guernsey: American Life in Poetry #139 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureat
© Ted Kooser
Man's best friend is, of course, woman's best friend, too. The Illinois poet, Bruce Guernsey, offers us this snapshot of a mutually agreed upon dependency that leads to a domestic communion.
The Vanishers
© John Greenleaf Whittier
Sweetest of all childlike dreams
In the simple Indian lore
Still to me the legend seems
Of the shapes who flit before.
The Big Top
© Joyce Kilmer
The boom and blare of the big brass band is cheering
to my heart
And I like the smell of the trampled grass and elephants and hay.
I take off my hat to the acrobat with his delicate, strong art,
To A Young Poet Who Killed Himself
© Joyce Kilmer
When you had played with life a space
And made it drink and lust and sing,
You flung it back into God's face
And thought you did a noble thing.
The Judge's Song
© William Schwenck Gilbert
When I, good friends, was called to the Bar,
I'd an appetite fresh and hearty,
The Cavern Of The Three Tells
© Felicia Dorothea Hemans
But when the battle-horn is blown
Till the Schreckhorn's peaks reply,
When the Jungfrau's cliffs send back the tone
Through their eagles' lonely sky;
The Twelve-Forty-Five
© Joyce Kilmer
(For Edward J. Wheeler)Within the Jersey City shed
The engine coughs and shakes its head,
The smoke, a plume of red and white,
Waves madly in the face of night.
The Thorn
© Joyce Kilmer
(For the Rev. Charles L. O'Donnell, C. S. C.)The garden of God is a radiant place,
And every flower has a holy face:
Our Lady like a lily bends above the cloudy sod,
But Saint Michael is the thorn on the rosebush of God.
The Proud Poet
© Joyce Kilmer
(For Shaemas O Sheel)One winter night a Devil came and sat upon my bed,
His eyes were full of laughter for his heart was full of crime.
"Why don't you take up fancy work, or embroidery?" he said,
"For a needle is as manly a tool as a pen that makes a rhyme!"
The Robe of Christ
© Joyce Kilmer
(For Cecil Chesterton)At the foot of the Cross on Calvary
Three soldiers sat and diced,
And one of them was the Devil
And he won the Robe of Christ.
The Voyage Of St. Brendan A.D. 545 - The Vocation
© Denis Florence MacCarthy
O Ita, mother of my heart and mind--
My nourisher, my fosterer, my friend,
Who taught me first to God's great will resigned,
Before his shining altar-steps to bend;
The Green Linnet
© William Wordsworth
BENEATH these fruit-tree boughs that shed
Their snow-white blossoms on my head,
Thanksgiving
© Joyce Kilmer
(For John Bunker)The roar of the world is in my ears.
Thank God for the roar of the world!
Thank God for the mighty tide of fears
Against me always hurled!
To A Distant Friend
© William Wordsworth
Why art thou silent! Is thy love a plant
Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air
Of absence withers what was once so fair?
Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant?
The New School
© Joyce Kilmer
(For My Mother)The halls that were loud with the merry tread of
young and careless feet
Are still with a stillness that is too drear to seem like holiday,
And never a gust of laughter breaks the calm of the dreaming street
The House with Nobody in It
© Joyce Kilmer
Whenever I walk to Suffern along the Erie track
I go by a poor old farmhouse with its shingles broken and black.
I suppose I've passed it a hundred times, but I always stop for
a minute
The Convalescent
© Robert Laurence Binyon
O strange, O sweetly warm
Falls the sunshine on my cheek.
I taste the cordial North;
In the pines I hear him speak.
The Singing Girl
© Joyce Kilmer
(For the Rev. Edward F. Garesche, S. J.)There was a little maiden
In blue and silver drest,
She sang to God in Heaven
And God within her breast.
