Poems begining by T
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To a Waterfowl
© William Cullen Bryant
Whither, midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way?
The Man I Like
© Edgar Albert Guest
I like the man who stands right up
And takes his share of praise or blame,
And then, unchanged by loss or gain,
Treats all his neighbors just the same!
Thumbsucker
© Sheldon Allan Silverstein
Ill tell you what them thumbsuckers like to do.
They suck your thumb till its wrinkled like a prune
Theyll say youve got the sweetest thumb of all
But then they suck the thumb of the guy livin down the hall
Thats why I aint gonna let no thumbsucker suck my thumb
Tears Hang on Her Eyes
© Sukasah Syahdan
the ones on the right
imbued with thoughts
of her faraway mom
The Houses Setting
© Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
HERE is no hedge of yewe to hold in griefe,
No cypresse nor long willow for despaire.
But the young birch displayes his cheerfulle leaf
In tracerie most faire.
The Doves Of Venus
© George Essex Evans
The dull earth swung in silence oer,
A dreamless world, a dreary star,
The Well Rising
© William Stafford
The well rising without sound,
the spring on a hillside,
the plowshare brimming through deep ground
everywhere in the field
The Prodigal Son
© John Newton
Afflictions, though they seem severe;
In mercy oft are sent;
They stopped the prodigal's career,
And forced him to repent.
Turning Fifty
© Judith Wright
Having known war and peace
and loss and finding,
I drink my coffee and wait
for the sun to rise,
The Eid Fitr that Starts
© Sukasah Syahdan
the Eid Fitr that starts
beckoning is one
I still don't deserve
There Was A Cherry-Tree
© James Whitcomb Riley
There was a cherry-tree. Its bloomy snows
Cool even now the fevered sight that knows
No more its airy visions of pure joy -
As when you were a boy.
True Fighters of Poverty
© Sukasah Syahdan
true fighters of poverty
don't say it--
it's no thing to do with words
Too Much Writing
© Sukasah Syahdan
too much writing
fatigued my master's hand:
consider me absent today
The Falcon
© Coventry Kersey Dighton Patmore
Who would not be Sir Hubert, for his birth and bearing fine,
His rich sky-skirted woodlands, valleys flowing oil and wine;
The Captain's Daughter
© James Thomas Fields
WE were crowded in the cabin,
Not a soul would dare to sleep,
It was midnight on the waters,
And a storm was on the deep.
