Poems begining by T
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The Day Is Gone, And All Its Sweets Are Gone
© John Keats
The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!
Sweet voice, sweet lips, soft hand, and softer breast,
Warm breath, light whisper, tender semitone,
Bright eyes, accomplished shape, and lang'rous waist!
To A Friend Who Sent Me Some Roses
© John Keats
As late I rambled in the happy fields,
What time the skylark shakes the tremulous dew
From his lush clover covert;when anew
Adventurous knights take up their dinted shields;
The Eve Of St. Agnes
© John Keats
St. Agnes' Eve--Ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;
The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass,
And silent was the flock in woolly fold:
To My Brother George
© John Keats
Many the wonders I this day have seen:
The sun, when first he kissed away the tears
That filled the eyes of Morn;the laurelled peers
Who from the feathery gold of evening lean;
The Human Seasons
© John Keats
Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;
There are four seasons in the mind of man:
He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear
Takes in all beauty with an easy span:
To Solitude
© John Keats
O solitude! if I must with thee dwell,
Let it not be among the jumbled heap
Of murky buildings; climb with me the steep,
Nature's observatorywhence the dell,
To Sleep
© John Keats
O soft embalmer of the still midnight,
Shutting, with careful fingers and benign,
Our gloom-pleas'd eyes, embower'd from the light,
Enshaded in forgetfulness divine:
To My Brothers
© John Keats
Small, busy flames play through the fresh-laid coals,
And their faint cracklings o'er our silence creep
Like whispers of the household gods that keep
A gentle empire o'er fraternal souls.
To Hope
© John Keats
When by my solitary hearth I sit,
And hateful thoughts enwrap my soul in gloom;
When no fair dreams before my "mind's eye" flit,
And the bare heath of life presents no bloom;
Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed,
And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head!
To Autumn
© John Keats
I
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
To an Online Friend
© John Matthew
May be the whole thing was a dream,
Pinched myself awake this morn,
To check if you are there, virtually,
And felt your sudden absence online!
To my son
© John Matthew
Dont be a slave to the work,
Of smart slave-drivers in cubicles,
Instead explore the works of men,
Who have experienced the truths,
And distilled in their words, wisdoms,
Which may grate your ears now.
Time Stands Still over Govandi Station
© John Matthew
A kite flutters,
On a high tension wire
Against a stark blue sky.
Beggar and old mother huddle
On Govandi Railway Station
The dirtiest station in the universe.
The Bombay Train Song
© John Matthew
He hangs on dangling handholds
As the train sways and careens
Endless nondescript buildings unfold
Their secrets as the tired warrior returns.
Transit
© Richard Wilbur
A woman I have never seen before
Steps from the darkness of her town-house door
At just that crux of time when she is made
So beautiful that she or time must fade.
The Prisoner of Zenda
© Richard Wilbur
It would be poor behavia
In him and in Princess Flavia
Were they to put their own
Concerns before those of the Throne.
Deborah Kerr must wed
The King instead.
The Riddle
© Richard Wilbur
Shall I love God for causing me to be?
I was mere utterance; shall these words love me?Yet when I caused His work to jar and stammer,
And one free subject loosened all His grammar,I love Him that He did not in a rage
Once and forever rule me off the page,But, thinking I might come to please Him yet,
The Ride
© Richard Wilbur
The horse beneath me seemed
To know what course to steer
Through the horror of snow I dreamed,
And so I had no fear,
To the Etruscan Poets
© Richard Wilbur
Dream fluently, still brothers, who when young
Took with your mother's milk the mother tongue,In which pure matrix, joining world and mind,
You strove to leave some line of verse behindLike still fresh tracks across a field of snow,
Not reckoning that all could melt and go.
The Beautiful Changes
© Richard Wilbur
The beautiful changes as a forest is changed
By a chameleon's tuning his skin to it;
As a mantis, arranged
On a green leaf, grows
Into it, makes the leaf leafier, and proves
Any greenness is deeper than anyone knows.
