Poems begining by T
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The Geranium
© Theodore Roethke
Near the end, she seemed almost to hear me--
And that was scary--
So when that snuffling cretin of a maid
Threw her, pot and all, into the trash-can,
I said nothing.
The Far Field
© Theodore Roethke
I learned not to fear infinity,
The far field, the windy cliffs of forever,
The dying of time in the white light of tomorrow,
The wheel turning away from itself,
The sprawl of the wave,
The on-coming water.
The Storm
© Theodore Roethke
We creep to our bed, and its straw mattress.
We wait; we listen.
The storm lulls off, then redoubles,
Bending the trees half-way down to the ground,
Shaking loose the last wizened oranges in the orchard,
Flattening the limber carnations.
The Waking
© Theodore Roethke
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.
To the City of London
© William Dunbar
London, thou art of town{.e}s A per se.
Soveraign of cities, semeliest in sight,
Of high renoun, riches, and royaltie;
Of lordis, barons, and many goodly knyght;
To a Lady
© William Dunbar
SWEET rois of vertew and of gentilness,
Delytsum lily of everie lustynes,
Richest in bontie and in bewtie clear,
And everie vertew that is wenit dear,
Except onlie that ye are mercyless
The Czar's Last Christmas Letter: A Barn in the Urals
© Norman Dubie
You were never told, Mother, how old Illyawas drunk
That last holiday, for five days and nightsHe stumbled through Petersburg forming
A choir of mutes, he dressed them in pink ascension gownsAnd, then, sold Father's Tirietz stallion so to rent
A hall for his Christmas recital: the audienceWas rowdy but Illya in his black robes turned on them
To Fr. Armando
© Regina Derieva
Everyone, after all, was killed:
he who was crucified,
he who died without skin,
he who died without a head,
The Chronicle Of The Drum
© William Makepeace Thackeray
"'Though Europe against me was arm'd,
Your chiefs and my people are true;
I still might have struggled with fortune,
And baffled all Europe with you.
Theory Of Recruiting
© Regina Derieva
Sons of bitches
were born
with hearts of stone,
cherishing this stone
To Amarantha, That She Would Dishevel Her Hair
© Richard Lovelace
Amarantha, sweet and fair,
Ah, braid no more that shining hair!
As my curious hand or eye
Hovering round thee, let it fly!
To Lucasta, Going Beyond The Seas
© Richard Lovelace
If to be absent were to be
Away from thee;
Or that when I am gone,
You or I were alone,
Then, my Lucasta, might I crave
Pity from blust'ring wind or swallowing wave.
The Scrutiny
© Richard Lovelace
Why should you swear I am forsworn,
Since thine I vowed to be?
Lady, it is already morn,
And 'twas last night I swore to thee
That fond impossibility.
To Althea, From Prison
© Richard Lovelace
When, like committed linnets, I
With shriller throat shall sing
The sweetness, mercy, majesty,
And glories of my King;
When I shall voice aloud how good
The Grasshopper
© Richard Lovelace
O thou that swing'st upon the waving ear
Of some well-filled oaten beard,
Drunk ev'ry night with a delicious tear
Dropped thee from heav'n, where now th' art reared,
The Rose
© Richard Lovelace
Sweet serene sky-like flower,
Haste to adorn her bower;
From thy long cloudy bed
Shoot forth thy damask head!
To Lucasta, Going To The Wars
© Richard Lovelace
Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind,
That from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breasts, and quiet mind,
To war and arms I fly.
The Song of the Borderguard
© Robert Duncan
The man with his lion under the shed of wars
sheds his belief as if he shed tears.
The sound of words waits -
a barbarian host at the borderline of sense.
