Poems begining by T
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The Harbour
© Eavan Boland
This harbour was made by art and force.
And called Kingstown and afterwards Dun Laoghaire.
And holds the sea behind its barrier
less than five miles from my house.
That the Science of Cartography Is Limited
© Eavan Boland
and not simply by the fact that this shading of
forest cannot show the fragrance of balsam,
the gloom of cypresses,
is what I wish to prove.
The Black Lace Fan My Mother Gave Me
© Eavan Boland
It was the first gift he ever gave her,
buying it for five five francs in the Galeries
in pre-war Paris. It was stifling.
A starless drought made the nights stormy.
To Thos. Floyd
© Robert Seymour Bridges
How fares it, friend, since I by Fate annoy'd
Left the old home in need of livelier play
For body and mind? How fare, this many a day,
The stubborn thews and ageless heart of Floyd?
To the United States of America
© Robert Seymour Bridges
Sure is our hope since he who led your nation
Spake for mankind, and ye arose in awe
Of that high call to work the world's salvation;
Clearing your minds of all estrangling blindness
In the vision of Beauty and the Spirit's law,
Freedom and Honour and sweet Lovingkindness.
To the President of Magdalen College, Oxford
© Robert Seymour Bridges
Since now from woodland mist and flooded clay
I am fled beside the steep Devonian shore,
Nor stand for welcome at your gothic door,
'Neath the fair tower of Magdalen and May,
To Joseph Joachim
© Robert Seymour Bridges
Belov'd of all to whom that Muse is dear
Who hid her spirit of rapture from the Greek,
Whereby our art excelleth the antique,
Perfecting formal beauty to the ear;
The Growth of Love
© Robert Seymour Bridges
So in despite of sorrow lately learn'd
I still hold true to truth since thou art true,
Nor wail the woe which thou to joy hast turn'd
Nor come the heavenly sun and bathing blue
To my life's need more splendid and unearn'd
Than hath thy gift outmatch'd desire and due.
the beekeeper
© Chris Mansell
the population controller
slips into disguise
his charming suit
his veil of words
The unquiet city
© Chris Mansell
we are succulents
our cool jade arms open
over clean tables our fine bone
china minds pull the strings
the good soldier
© Chris Mansell
on someone else's place
it seems to him the land
slings distance way out
the dirt is dead and
Trying To Write
© Elizabeth Smart
That day i finished
A small piece
For an obscure magazine
I popped it in the box
The Lunatic
© Liam Wilkinson
Im in a strange mood tonight.I aim for the moon and laugh
as the elastic snaps behind me,collapsing the whole contraption
until I look like the lunatic,tangled in the chaos of the death
of a mechanical butterfly.
The Execution
© Liam Wilkinson
Hearth rugs are
beaten in the yard.Each sink is made
to swallow bleach.Shirts
are hung.Crockery
To the Lady Margaret Ley
© John Milton
Daughter to that good Earl, one President
Of Englands Council and her Treasury,
Who lived in both unstained with gold or fee,
And left them both, more in himself content,
To the Same
© John Milton
Cyriack, this three years day these eyes, though clear,
To outward view, of blemish or of spot,
Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot;
Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear
To Mr. H. Lawes on His Airs
© John Milton
Harry, whose tuneful and well-measured song
First taught our English music how to span
Words with just note and accent, not to scan
With Midas ears, committing short and long,
To Sr Henry Vane The Younger
© John Milton
Vane, young in yeares, but in sage counsell old,
Then whome a better Senatour nere held
The helme of Rome, when gownes not armes repelld
The feirce Epeirot & the African bold,
The Hymn
© John Milton
IIt was the Winter wilde,
While the Heav'n-born-childe,
All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies;
Nature in aw to him
