Poems begining by T
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The Voice
© Andree Chedid
In what bare tomb must I lie
To summon the voice
That speaks like my soul?
The Final Poem
© Andree Chedid
Where are the words,
The undying fire,
The final poem?
The source of life?
Take This Waltz
© Leonard Cohen
(After Lorca)
Now in Vienna there are ten pretty women.
There's a shoulder where death comes to cry.
Tower Of Song
© Leonard Cohen
Well my friends are gone and my hair is grey
I ache in the places where I used to play
And I'm crazy for love but I'm not coming on
I'm just paying my rent every day
The Future
© Leonard Cohen
Give me back my broken night
my mirrored room, my secret life
it's lonely here,
there's no one left to torture
The Sun Underfoot Among The Sundews
© Amy Clampitt
An ingenuity too astonishing
to be quite fortuitous is
this bog full of sundews, sphagnum-
lined and shaped like a teacup.
To His Book
© Robert Herrick
Make haste away, and let one be
A friendly patron unto thee;
Lest, rapt from hence, I see thee lie
Torn for the use of pastery;
To Mistress Katharine Bradshaw, The Lovely, That Crowned Him With Laurel
© Robert Herrick
My Muse in meads has spent her many hours
Sitting, and sorting several sorts of flowers,
To make for others garlands; and to set
On many a head here, many a coronet.
The Present Time Best Pleaseth
© Robert Herrick
Praise, they that will, times past: I joy to see
Myself now live; this age best pleaseth me!
To Groves
© Robert Herrick
Ye silent shades, whose each tree here
Some relique of a saint doth wear;
Who for some sweet-heart's sake, did prove
The fire and martyrdom of Love:--
To Perenna
© Robert Herrick
When I thy parts run o'er, I can't espy
In any one, the least indecency;
But every line and limb diffused thence
A fair and unfamiliar excellence;
So that the more I look, the more I prove
There's still more cause why I the more should love.
To Sir Clipsby Crew
© Robert Herrick
Since to the country first I came,
I have lost my former flame;
And, methinks, I not inherit,
As I did, my ravish'd spirit.
The Wassail
© Robert Herrick
Give way, give way, ye gates, and win
An easy blessing to your bin
And basket, by our entering in.
To His Kinswoman, Mistress Susanna Herrick
© Robert Herrick
When I consider, dearest, thou dost stay
But here awhile, to languish and decay;
Like to these garden glories, which here be
The flowery-sweet resemblances of thee:
With grief of heart, methinks, I thus do cry,
Would thou hadst ne'er been born, or might'st not die!
To His Muse
© Robert Herrick
Whither, mad maiden, wilt thou roam?
Far safer 'twere to stay at home;
Where thou mayst sit, and piping, please
The poor and private cottages.
To Bacchus: A Canticle
© Robert Herrick
Whither dost thou hurry me,
Bacchus, being full of thee?
This way, that way, that way, this,--
Here and there a fresh Love is;
To His Lovely Mistresses
© Robert Herrick
One night i'th' year, my dearest Beauties, come,
And bring those dew-drink-offerings to my tomb;
When thence ye see my reverend ghost to rise,
And there to lick th' effused sacrifice,
Things Mortal Still Mutable
© Robert Herrick
Things are uncertain; and the more we get,
The more on icy pavements we are set.
The Bleeding Hand; Or The Sprig Of Eglantine Given To A Maid
© Robert Herrick
From this bleeding hand of mine,
Take this sprig of Eglantine:
Which, though sweet unto your smell,
Yet the fretful briar will tell,
He who plucks the sweets, shall prove
Many thorns to be in love.
