Poems begining by T
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The Manuscript of Saint Alexius
© Augusta Davies Webster
But, when my father thought my words took shape
of other than boy's prattle, he grew grave,
and answered me "Alexius, thou art young,
and canst not judge of duties; but know this
thine is to serve God, living in the world."
They Feed They Lion
© Philip Levine
Out of burlap sacks, out of bearing butter,
Out of black bean and wet slate bread,
Out of the acids of rage, the candor of tar,
Out of creosote, gasoline, drive shafts, wooden dollies,
They Lion grow.
To a Lock of Hair
© Sir Walter Scott
Thy hue, dear pledge, is pure and bright
As in that well - remember'd night
When first thy mystic braid was wove,
And first my Agnes whisper'd love.
The Truth of Woman
© Sir Walter Scott
Woman's faith, and woman's trust -
Write the characters in the dust;
Stamp them on the running stream,
Print them on the moon's pale beam,
The Rover's Adieu
© Sir Walter Scott
weary lot is thine, fair maid,
A weary lot is thine!
To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,
And press the rue for wine.
The Outlaw
© Sir Walter Scott
'O, Brignall banks are fresh and fair,
And Greta woods are green!
I'd rather rove with Edmund there
Than reign our English Queen.'
The Maid of Neidpath
© Sir Walter Scott
O lovers eyes are sharp to see,
And lovers ears in hearing;
And love, in lifes extremity,
Can lend an hour of cheering.
The Three Fishers
© Charles Kingsley
1 Three fishers went sailing away to the west,
2 Away to the west as the sun went down;
3 Each thought on the woman who loved him the best,
4 And the children stood watching them out of the town;
The Sands of Dee
© Charles Kingsley
1 "O Mary, go and call the cattle home,
2 And call the cattle home,
3 And call the cattle home
4 Across the sands of Dee";
5 The western wind was wild and dank with foam,
6 And all alone went she.
The Last Buccaneer
© Charles Kingsley
OH, England is a pleasant place for them that s rich and high;
But England is a cruel place for such poor folks as I;
And such a port for mariners I neer shall see again,
As the pleasant Isle of Avès, beside the Spanish main.
The Victor Dog
© James Merrill
Bix to Buxtehude to Boulez,
The little white dog on the Victor label
Listens long and hard as he is able.
It's all in a day's work, whatever plays.
To See Him Again
© Gabriela Mistral
Never, never again?
Not on nights filled with quivering stars,
or during dawn's maiden brightness
or afternoons of sacrifice?
The Constant Lover
© Sir John Suckling
Out upon it, I have lov'd
Three whole days together;
And am like to love three more,
If it prove fair weather.
Twas One of Those Dreams
© Thomas Moore
'TWAS one of those dreams, that by music are brought,
Like a bright summer haze, o'er the poet's warm thought --
When, lost in the future, his soul wanders on,
And all of this life, but its sweetness, is gone.
Translation From the Gull Language
© Thomas Moore
'Twas grav'd on the Stone of Destiny,
In letters four, and letters three;
And ne'er did the King of the Gulls go by
But those awful letters scar'd his eye;
To Ladies' Eyes
© Thomas Moore
To Ladies' eyes a round, boy,
We can't refuse, we can't refuse;
Though bright eyes so abound, boy,
'Tis hard to choose, 'tis hard to choose.
Tis the Last Rose of Summer
© Thomas Moore
Tis the last rose of summer
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone:
Tis Sweet to Think
© Thomas Moore
Tis sweet to think that, where'er we rove,
We are sure to find something blissful and dear,
And that, when we're far from the lips that we love,
We've but to make love to the lips we are near.
