Poems begining by T
/ page 687 of 916 /
The Four Winds
© Aleister Crowley
The South wind said to the palms:
My lovers sing me psalms;
But are they as warm as those
That Laylah's lover knows?
The Red Lily
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
I CALL her the Red Lily. Lo! she stands
From all her milder sister flowers apart;
A conscious grace in those fair-folded hands,
Pressed on the guileful throbbings of her heart!
The Five Adorations
© Aleister Crowley
I praise Thee, God, whose rays upstart beneath the Bright
and Morning Star:
Nowit asali fardh salat assobhi allahu akbar.
The Disciples
© Aleister Crowley
Beneath the vine tree and the fig
Where mortal cares may not intrude,
On melon and on sucking pig
Although their brains are bright and big
Banquet the Great White Brotherhood.
The Buddhist
© Aleister Crowley
There never was a face as fair as yours,
A heart as true, a love as pure and keen.
These things endure, if anything endures.
But, in this jungle, what high heaven immures
The Atheist
© Aleister Crowley
Nor thou, Habib, nor I are glad,
when rosy limbs and sweat entwine;
But rapture drowns the sense and self,
the wine the drawer of the wine,
The Vision Of Piers Plowman - Part 07
© William Langland
Treuthe herde telle herof, and to Piers sente
To taken his teme and tilien the erthe,
And purchaced hym a pardoun a pena et a culpa
For hym and for hyse heirs for ever oore after-
Thanatos Basileos
© Aleister Crowley
The serpent dips his head beneath the sea
His mother, source of all his energy
Eternal, thence to draw the strength he needs
On earth to do indomitable dees
The Burial Of Sir John Moore After Corunna
© Charles Wolfe
Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
The Old Familiar Faces
© Charles Lamb
I have had playmates, I have had companions,
In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days-
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
The Well of Loch Maree
© John Greenleaf Whittier
Calm on the breast of Loch Maree
A little isle reposes;
A shadow woven of the oak
And willow o'er it closes.
The Borough. Letter XII: Players
© George Crabbe
DRAWN by the annual call, we now behold
Our Troop Dramatic, heroes known of old,
And those, since last they march'd, enlisted and
the missing
© Suheir Hammad
the way loss seeps
into neck hollows
and curls at temples
sits between front teeth
The Gnu
© Hilaire Belloc
G stands for Gnu, whose weapon of defence
Are long, sharp, curling horns, and common sense.
The Dying Child
© John Clare
He could not die when trees were green,
For he loved the time too well.
His little hands, when flowers were seen,
Were held for the bluebell,
As he was carried o'er the green.
The Spoilsport
© Robert Graves
My familiar ghost again
Comes to see what he can see,
Critic, son of Conscious Brain,
Spying on our privacy.
To an Ungentle Critic
© Robert Graves
The great sun sinks behind the town
Through a red mist of Volnay wine....
But whats the use of setting down
That glorious blaze behind the town?
The Automobile
© Percy MacKaye
Then all of Nature's old amazement seemed
Sudden to ask us: "Is this also Man?
This plunging, volant, land-amphibian
What Plato mused and Paracelsus dreamed?
Reply!" And piercing us with ancient scan,
The shrill, primeval hawk gazed down -- and screamed.
