Poems begining by T
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The Holy Emerald
© Turner Charles (Tennyson)
The gem, to which the artist did entrustThat Face which now outshines the Cherubim,Gave up, full willingly, its emerald dust,To take Christ's likeness, to make room for Him
The Gold-Crested Wren
© Turner Charles (Tennyson)
When my hand closed upon thee, worn and spentWith idly dashing on the window-pane,Or clinging to the cornice -- I, that meantAt once to free thee, could not but detain;I dropt my pen, I left th' unfinished lay,To give thee back to freedom; but I took --Oh, charm of sweet occasion! -- one brief lookAt thy bright eyes and innocent dismay;Then forth I sent thee on thy homeward quest,My lesson learnt -- thy beauty got by heart:And if, at times, my sonnet-muse would restShort of her topmost skill, her little best,The memory of thy delicate gold crestShall plead for one last touch, -- the crown of Art
The Cricket
© Frederick Goddard Tuckerman
The humming bee purrs softly o'er his flower, From lawn and thicketThe dogday locust singeth in the sun, From hour to hour;Each has his bard, and thou, ere day be done Shalt have no wrong;So bright that murmur mid the insect crowdMuffled and lost in bottom grass, or loud By pale and picket:Shall I not take to help me in my song A little cooing cricket?
The afternoon is sleepy!, let us lieBeneath these branches, whilst the burdened brookMuttering and moaning to himself goes by,And mark our minstrel's carol, whilst we lookToward the faint horizon, swooning-blue
The Old School
© Tsiriotakis Helen
But to say what you want to say you must createanother language and nourish it for yearsand years with what you have loved
Theory of Something
© Tierney Matthew
Roaches laid open by minutens, arrangedin a glass box under rule of thumb, heirs
Twilight Harmony
© Thorley Wilfred Charles
Behold the hour is come when stems are thrilled, And like swung censers flowers shed their fume;Now thro' the air are sounds and odours spilled; O wistful waltz within the dizzy gloom!
To Cassandra
© Thorley Wilfred Charles
O Mayde more tender yet Than shy sweet buds that wakeOn rose-trees dewy wet When first the daye doth break,That from the thorny speareHalf green, half red doe peere;
The Lake
© Thorley Wilfred Charles
Thus ever drawn toward far shores uncharted, Into eternal darkness borne away,May we not ever on Time's sea, unthwarted, Cast anchor for a day?
The Ballade of Lovely Ladyes of Long Agoe
© Thorley Wilfred Charles
O tell me where and in what lande Is Flora and the Roman lass?Where's Thaïs or the Ladye grande That was her equal in all grace? Saye where doth Echo hyde her faceWhose voice bye streame and pool doth straye, Whose beauty more than mortal was? --But where are the white snowes borne awaye?
Where nowe is learnéd Heloïse For whom poor Abelard lost allQuick fuel of love's agonies
The City of Dreadful Night
© James Thomson
As I came through the desert thus it was,As I came through the desert: All was black,In heaven no single star, on earth no track;A brooding hush without a stir or note,The air so thick it clotted in my throat;And thus for hours; then some enormous thingsSwooped past with savage cries and clanking wings: But I strode on austere; No hope could have no fear
The Seasons: Summer
© James Thomson
From brightening fields of ether fair-disclos'd,Child of the sun, refulgent Summer comes,In pride of youth, and felt through nature's depth:He comes, attended by the sultry HoursAnd ever-fanning Breezes, on his way;While, from his ardent look, the turning SpringAverts her blushful face; and earth and skies,All-smiling, to his hot dominion leaves
The Castle of Indolence: Canto I
© James Thomson
The Castle hight of Indolence,And its false luxury;Where for a little time, alas!We liv'd right jollily.
To Virgil, Written at the Request of the Mantuans for the Nineteenth Centenary of Virgil's Death
© Alfred Tennyson
Roman Virgil, thou that singest Ilion's lofty temples robed in fire,Ilion falling, Rome arising, wars, and filial faith, and Dido's pyre;
The Orphan
© Taylor Jane
MY father and mother are dead, No friend or relation I have :And now the cold earth is their bed, And daisies grow over the grave.
The Unceasing Round
© Taylor Edward Robeson
In centre of the canvas see this pine All stark in death, with arms in vain appeal For what it nevermore can taste or feel Of joys of earth or of the heavens divine
