Poems begining by T
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The Early Morning
© Hilaire Belloc
The moon on the one hand, the dawn on the other:
The moon is my sister, the dawn is my brother.
The moon on my left and the dawn on my right.
My brother, good morning: my sister, good night.
The Distant Ship
© Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Look round thee!âo'er the slumbering deep
A solemn glory broods;
A fire hath touch'd the beacon-steep,
And all the golden woods;
They Flee From Me
© Sir Thomas Wyatt
They flee from me that sometime did me seek
With naked foot, stalking in my chamber.
I have seen them gentle, tame, and meek,
That now are wild and do not remember
The Young Man's Song
© Sydney Thompson Dobell
At last the curse has run its date!
The heavens grow clear above,
And on the purple plains of Hate,
We'll build the throne of Love!
The Long Love
© Sir Thomas Wyatt
The long love that in my thought doth harbour,
And in mine heart doth keep his residence,
Into my face presseth with bold pretence,
And therein campeth, spreading his banner.
The Wishing Gate Destroyed
© William Wordsworth
HOPE rules a land forever green:
All powers that serve the bright-eyed Queen
Are confident and gay;
Clouds at her bidding disappear;
Points she to aught?--the bliss draws near,
And Fancy smooths the way.
The Heart and Service
© Sir Thomas Wyatt
The heart and service to you proffer'dWith right good will full honestly,Refuse it not, since it is offer'd,But take it to you gentlely.
The Dead Czar
© Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
But this man? Ah! for him
Funereal state, and ceremonial grand,
The stone-engraved sarcophagus, and then
Oblivion.
The Furious Gun
© Sir Thomas Wyatt
The furious gun in his raging ire,
When that the bowl is rammed in too sore
And that the flame cannot part from the fire,
Cracketh in sunder, and in the air doth roar
The Fire
© Lola Ridge
The old men of the world have made a fire
To warm their trembling hands.
They poke the young men in.
The young men burn like withes.
The Mimic Harlequin
© Charles Lamb
"O fie, you naughty child, what have you done?
There never was so mischievous a son.
You've put the cat among my work, and torn
A fine laced cap that I but once have worn."
Twenty-Third Sunday After Trinity
© John Keble
Red o'er the forest peers the setting sun,
The line of yellow light dies fast away
That crowned the eastern copse: and chill and dun
Falls on the moor the brief November day.
The Planet On The Table
© Wallace Stevens
Ariel was glad he had written his poems.
They were of a remembered time
Or of something seen that he liked.
The Sisters
© Judith Wright
In the vine-shadows on the veranda;
under the yellow leaves, in the cooling sun,
sit two sisters. Their slow voices run
like little winter creeks, dwindled by frost and wind,
and the square of sunlight moves on the veranda.
To Stella Visiting Me in My Sickness
© Jonathan Swift
Pallas, observing Stella's wit
Was more than for her sex was fit,
And that her beauty, soon or late,
Might breed confusion in the state,
To Mother
© Marina Tsvetaeva
In the old Strauss waltz for the first time
We had listened to your quiet call,
Since then all the living things are alien
And the knocking of the clock consoles.
The After-Glow
© Coventry Kersey Dighton Patmore
Suspicion's playful counterfeit
Begot your question strange:
The Window
© Marina Tsvetaeva
In the sweet, Atlantic
Breathing of spring
My curtain's like a butterfly,
Huge, fluttering
The Demon In Me
© Marina Tsvetaeva
The demon in me's not dead,
He's living, and well.
In the body as in a hold,
In the self as in a cell.
