Poems begining by T
/ page 685 of 916 /
The Dead Feast of the Kol-Folk
© John Greenleaf Whittier
We have opened the door,
Once, twice, thrice!
Trust Thou Thy Love
© John Ruskin
TRUST thou thy Love: if she be proud, is she not sweet?
Trust thou thy Love: if she be mute, is she not pure?
Lay thou thy soul full in her hands, low at her feet;
Fail, Sun and Breath!--yet, for thy peace, She shall endure.
There are Days
© John Montague
There are days when
one should be able
to pluck off one's head
like a dented or worn
To A Child Embracing His Mother
© Thomas Hood
Love thy mother, little one!
Kiss and clasp her neck again,
Hereafter she may have a son
Will kiss and clasp her neck in vain.
The Charm.
© Robert Crawford
O touch her with thy heavenly beams,
Bright Moon! that she may know
Within his paradise of dreams
Love died not long ago.
Tom Taylor
© Robert Graves
On pay-day nights, neck-full with beer,
Old soldiers stumbling homeward here,
The Sirens Cave At Tivoli
© Frances Anne Kemble
As o'er the chasm I breathless hung,
Thus from the depths the siren sung:
The Nut
© Jessie Pope
He used to get, when in civilian state,
His tea and shaving water, sharp, at eight.
Then ten delicious minutes would be spent
In one last snooze of exquisite content.
The Better Part
© Edith Nesbit
THERE'S a grey old church on a wind-swept hill
Where three bent yew trees cower,
The Meditation Of The Old Fisherman
© William Butler Yeats
YOU waves, though you dance by my feet like children
at play,
The Cellist
© Galway Kinnell
At intermission I find her backstage
still practicing the piece coming up next.
She calls it the "solo in high dreary."
Her bow niggles at the string like a hand
The Perch
© Galway Kinnell
There is a fork in a branch
of an ancient, enormous maple,
one of a grove of such trees,
where I climb sometimes and sit and look out
The Correspondence School Instructor Says Goodbye To His Poetry Students
© Galway Kinnell
Goodbye,
you who are, for me, the postmarks again
of shattered towns-Xenia, Burnt Cabins, Hornell-
their loneliness
given away in poems, only their solitude kept.
Two Seasons
© Galway Kinnell
The stars were wild that summer evening
As on the low lake shore stood you and I
And every time I caught your flashing eye
Or heard your voice discourse on anything
It seemed a star went burning down the sky.
Telephoning In Mexican Sunlight
© Galway Kinnell
Talking with my beloved in New York
I stood at the outdoor public telephone
in Mexican sunlight, in my purple shirt.
Someone had called it a man/woman
Thirty Bob a Week
© John Davidson
I couldn't touch a stop and turn a screw,
And set the blooming world a-work for me,
Like such as cut their teeth -- I hope, like you --
On the handle of a skeleton gold key;
I cut mine on a leek, which I eat it every week:
I'm a clerk at thirty bob as you can see.
