Poems begining by T
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The Bard's Incantation
© Sir Walter Scott
The Forest of Glenmore is drear,
It is all of black pine, and the dark oak-tree;
The Telephone
© Robert Frost
'When I was just as far as I could walk
From here today,
There was an hour
All still
The Soldier
© Robert Frost
He is that fallen lance that lies as hurled,
That lies unlifted now, come dew, come rust,
But still lies pointed as it ploughed the dust.
If we who sight along it round the world,
The Need of Being Versed in Country Things
© Robert Frost
The house had gone to bring again
To the midnight sky a sunset glow.
Now the chimney was all of the house that stood,
Like a pistil after the petals go.
The Silence
© Emile Verhaeren
Ever since ending of the summer weather.
When last the thunder and the lightning broke,
Shatt'ring themselves upon it at one stroke,
The Silence has not stirred, there in the heather.
The Sound of the Trees
© Robert Frost
I wonder about the trees.
Why do we wish to bear
Forever the noise of these
More than another noise
The Door in the Dark
© Robert Frost
In going from room to room in the dark,
I reached out blindly to save my face,
But neglected, however lightly, to lace
My fingers and close my arms in an arc.
The Death of the Hired Man
© Robert Frost
Mary sat musing on the lamp-flame at the table
Waiting for Warren. When she heard his step,
She ran on tip-toe down the darkened passage
To meet him in the doorway with the news
The Star Sirius
© George Meredith
Bright Sirius! that when Orion pales
To dotlings under moonlight still art keen
The Cow In Apple-Time
© Robert Frost
Something inspires the only cow of late
To make no more of a wall than an open gate,
And think no more of wall-builders than fools.
Her face is flecked with pomace and she drools
To Count Carlo Pepoli
© Giacomo Leopardi
This wearisome and this distressing sleep
That we call life, O how dost thou support,
The White Peacock
© Stephen Vincent Benet
Go away!
Go away; I will not confess to you!
His black biretta clings like a hangman's cap; under his twitching fingers the beads shiver and click,
As he mumbles in his corner, the shadow deepens upon him;
I will not confess! . . .
The Pasture
© Robert Frost
I'm going out to clean the pasture spring;
I'll only stop to rake the leaves away
(And wait to watch the water clear, I may):
I shan't be gone long. -- You come too.
The Borough. Letter XXII: Peter Grimes
© George Crabbe
Now lived the youth in freedom, but debarr'd
From constant pleasure, and he thought it hard;
Hard that he could not every wish obey,
But must awhile relinquish ale and play;
Hard! that he could not to his cards attend,
But must acquire the money he would spend.
The Other World
© Harriet Beecher Stowe
It lies around us like a cloud,
A world we do not see;
Yet the sweet closing of an eye
May bring us there to be.
The Silken Tent
© Robert Frost
She is as in a field a silken tent
At midday when the sunny summer breeze
Has dried the dew and all its ropes relent,
So that in guys it gently sways at ease,
The Protest
© James Russell Lowell
I could not bear to see those eyes
On all with wasteful largess shine,
