Poems begining by T
/ page 747 of 916 /
The Birds by Linda Pastan: American Life in Poetry #86 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate 2004-2006
© Ted Kooser
Linda Pastan, who lives in Maryland, is a master of the kind of water-clear writing that enables us to see into the depths. This is a poem about migrating birds, but also about how it feels to witness the passing of another year.
The Last Blossom
© Oliver Wendell Holmes
THOUGH young no more, we still would dream
Of beauty's dear deluding wiles;
The leagues of life to graybeards seem
Shorter than boyhood's lingering miles.
Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 3. Interlude II.
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Well pleased all listened to the tale,
That drew, the Student said, its pith
The Massasauga
© Hamlin Garland
A COLD coiled line of mottled lead,
He lies where grazing cattle tread,
And lifts a fanged and spiteful head.
The Waradgery Tribe
© Dame Mary Gilmore
Harried we were, and spent,
broken and falling,
ere as the cranes we went,
crying and calling.
The First Thrush
© Dame Mary Gilmore
Though leaves have fallen long since,
The wagtails flirt and flit,
Glad in the morning sun;
While, on the knotted quince,
The dewdrops, pearled on it,
Bead to a little run. . . .
The Calf-Path
© Sam Walter Foss
One day, through the primeval wood,
A calf walked home, as good calves should;
But made a trail all bent askew,
A crooked trail as all calves do.
The Ballade Of The Glutton
© Norman Rowland Gale
O Redcoats of England, who struggle and dare,
Your glory's a morsel no glutton can please;
My yearning is all for a soft-cushioned chair,
Soused salmon and lamb and young ducks and green peas.
The Waving of the Red
© Henry Lawson
It is a sad and cruel fate the countrys coming to,
And theres no use in striking, so what are we to do?
I know what we could do, but then, there might be traitors near,
And things are running in my head that only mates should hear!
The world cannot go on like this, in spite of all thats said,
And millions now are waiting for the Waving of the Red.
The Works of God
© George Sandys
Great God! how manifold, how infinite
Are all Thy works! with what a clear foresight
The Harp Of The Minstrel
© James Whitcomb Riley
The harp of the minstrel has never a tone
As sad as the song in his bosom to-night,
To the dead poet of obscurity
© Dimitris P. Kraniotis
(In honor of the dead unpublished poet)Well done!
You have won!
You should not feel sorry.
Your unpublished poems
The Hunter's Serenade
© William Cullen Bryant
Thy bower is finished, fairest!
Fit bower for hunter's bride--
The Two April Mornings
© William Wordsworth
We walked along, while bright and red
Uprose the morning sun;
And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said
`The will of God be done!'
The donts and zeros
© Dimitris P. Kraniotis
The night
that strangled
the endless moments
I had wished
The Stranger
© John Clare
When trouble haunts me, need I sigh?
No, rather smile away despair;
For those have been more sad than I,
With burthens more than I could bear;
Aye, gone rejoicing under care
Where I had sunk in black despair.
The end
© Dimitris P. Kraniotis
The savour of fruits
still remains
in my mouth,
but the bitterness of words
The Enthusiast, or the Lover of Nature
© Joseph Warton
Ye green-rob'd Dryads, oft' at dusky Eve
By wondering Shepherds seen, to Forests brown,
