Poems begining by T
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The Last Question: (For B. A. Bingham)
© Katharine Tynan
They lifted up his weary head,
Stained with a dark and bitter dew:
"How does the battle go?" he said.
The Treasure Of The Wise Man
© James Whitcomb Riley
O the night was dark and the night was late,
And the robbers came to rob him;
The Seedling
© Paul Laurence Dunbar
AS a quiet little seedling
Lay within its darksome bed,
To itself it fell a-talking,
And this is what it said:
The Hartley Calamity
© Joseph Skipsey
The Hartley men are noble, and
Ye'll hear a tale of woe;
I'll tell the doom of the Hartley men -
The year of sixty two.
The Resurrection And The Life
© John Newton
I Am, saith Christ our glorious head,
(May we attention give)
The resurrection of the dead,
The life of all that live.
The Babysitters
© Sylvia Plath
It is ten years, now, since we rowed to Children's Island.
The sun flamed straight down that noon on the water off Marblehead.
The Patchwork Bonnet
© Robert Graves
Across the room my silent love I throw,
Where you sit sewing in bed by candlelight,
Your young stern profile and industrious fingers
Displayed against the blind in a shadow-show,
To Dinda's grave delight.
The Building
© Philip Larkin
Higher than the handsomest hotel
The lucent comb shows up for miles, but see,
The Circuit Judge
© Edgar Lee Masters
Take note, passers-by, of the sharp erosions
Eaten in my head-stone by the wind and rain --
Almost as if an intangible Nemesis or hatred
Were marking scores against me,
To Sir Henry Wotton II
© John Donne
HERE'S no more news than virtue ; I may as well
Tell you Calais, or Saint Michael's tales, as tell
That vice doth here habitually dwell.
The Neighbors
© Edgar Albert Guest
WHY do I grind from morn till night,
And sick or well sit down to write?
Why do I line my brow with sweat,
An extra buck or two to get?
The reason isn't hard to trace,
For us our neighbors set the pace.
The Shepheardes Calender: Januarie
© Edmund Spenser
A Shepeheards boye (no better doe him call)
when Winters wastful spight was almost spent,
All in a sunneshine day, as did befall,
Led forth his flock, that had been long ypent.
So faynt they woxe, and feeble in the folde,
That now vnnethes their feete could them vphold.
The Spooniad
© Edgar Lee Masters
[The late Mr. Jonathan Swift Somers, laureate of Spoon River, planned The Spooniad as an epic in twenty-four books, but unfortunately did not live to complete even the first book. The fragment was found among his papers by William Marion Reedy and was for the first time published in Reedy's Mirror of December 18th, 1914.]
Of John Cabanis' wrath and of the strife
Of hostile parties, and his dire defeat
Who led the common people in the cause
The Emigrant Mother
© William Wordsworth
Once having seen her clasp with fond embrace
This Child, I chanted to myself a lay,
Endeavouring, in our English tongue, to trace
Such things as she unto the Babe might say:
And thus, from what I heard and knew, or guessed,
My song the workings of her heart expressed.
The Linnet's Nest
© Erasmus Darwin
The busy birds, with nice selection, cull
Soft thistle-down, gray moss, and scatter'd wool;
The Widow of Nain
© George MacDonald
Forth from the city, with the load
That makes the trampling low,
They walk along the dreary road
That dust and ashes go.
The Evening Company
© James Whitcomb Riley
Within the sitting-room, the company
Had been increased in number. Two or three
Young couples had been added: Emma King,
Ella and Mary Mathers--all could sing
Like veritable angels--Lydia Martin, too,
And Nelly Millikan.--What songs they knew!--
The Patient Countess. - extracted from Albion's England
© William Warner
Impatience chaungeth smoke to flame, but jealousie is hell;
Some wives by patience have reduc'd ill husbands to live well:
There is a Community of Spirit
© Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi
There is a community of the spirit.
Join it, and feel the delight
The Sermon of the Birds
© Roland Robinson
I was clearing thirty or forty acres once
Out in the western range near Nightcap Mountain.
