Poems begining by T

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Did the door move, or was it always ajar?
The gladioli on the table are pale mauve.
I smell pale mauve and blue,
Blue soft like bruisesputridoozing
The air oozes bluemauve
And the door with the black line where it does not shut!

The Belltower

© Diane di Prima

the weighing is done in autumn
and the sifting
what is to be threshed
is threshed in autumn
what is to be gathered is taken

The State Of Age

© George Meredith

Rub thou thy battered lamp: nor claim nor beg

Honours from aught about thee. Light the young.

Twilight

© Amy Levy

So Mary died last night! To-day
The news has travelled here.
And Robert died at Michaelmas,
And Walter died last year.

Translated from Geibel

© Amy Levy

O say, thou wild, thou oft deceived heart,
What mean these noisy throbbings in my breast?
After thy long, unutterable woe
Wouldst thou not rest?

To Vernon Lee

© Amy Levy

On Bellosguardo, when the year was young,
We wandered, seeking for the daffodil
And dark anemone, whose purples fill
The peasant's plot, between the corn-shoots sprung.

To Sylvia

© Amy Levy

"O love, lean thou thy cheek to mine,
And let the tears together flow"--
Such was the song you sang to me
Once, long ago.

To E.

© Amy Levy

The mountains in fantastic lines
Sweep, blue-white, to the sky, which shines
Blue as blue gems; athwart the pines
The lake gleams blue.

To Death

© Amy Levy

If within my heart there's mould,
If the flame of Poesy
And the flame of Love grow cold,
Slay my body utterly.

To a Dead Poet

© Amy Levy

I knew not if to laugh or weep;
They sat and talked of you--
"'Twas here he sat; 'twas this he said!
'Twas that he used to do.

The Invective of Achilles

© George Meredith

[Iliad, B. I. V. 149]

"Heigh me! brazen of front, thou glutton for plunder, how can one,

The Village Garden

© Amy Levy

Here, where your garden fenced about and still is,
Here, where the unmoved summer air is sweet
With mixed delight of lavender and lilies,
Dreaming I linger in the noontide heat.

The Two Terrors

© Amy Levy

Which way she turn, my soul finds no relief,
My smitten soul may not be comforted;
Alternately she swings from grief to grief,
And, poised between them, sways from dread to dread.
For there she dreads because she knows; and here,
Because she knows not, only faints with fear.

Tit for Tat

© Walter de la Mare

Have you been catching fish, Tom Noddy?
Have you snared a weeping hare?
Have you whistled "No Nunny" and gunned a poor bunny,
Or blinded a bird of the air?

The Sick Man and the Nightingale

© Amy Levy

So late, and yet a nightingale?
Long since have dropp'd the blossoms pale,
The summer fields are ripening,
And yet a sound of spring?

The Promise of Sleep

© Amy Levy

Put the sweet thoughts from out thy mind,
The dreams from out thy breast;
No joy for thee--but thou shalt find
Thy rest

The Bride

Where time and sorrow, guilt and care,
Have past and left their withering there:-
These are her joys; and she doth roam
Around her dear but desert home;
Peopling the vacant seats, till tears arise,
And blot the dim sweet vision from her eyes.

The Piano-Organ

© Amy Levy

My student-lamp is lighted,
The books and papers are spread;
A sound comes floating upwards,
Chasing the thoughts from my head.

The Old Poet

© Amy Levy

I will be glad because it is the Spring;
I will forget the winter in my heart--
Dead hopes and withered promise; and will wring
A little joy from life ere life depart.