Poems begining by T
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To Daffadils
© Robert Herrick
Fair Daffadils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon;
As yet the early-rising sun
Has not attain'd his noon.
To Daisies, Not To Shut So Soon
© Robert Herrick
Shut not so soon; the dull-eyed night
Has not as yet begun
To make a seizure on the light,
Or to seal up the sun.
The Funeral Rites Of The Rose
© Robert Herrick
The Rose was sick, and smiling died;
And, being to be sanctified,
About the bed, there sighing stood
The sweet and flowery sisterhood.
The Argument Of His Book
© Robert Herrick
I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers,
Of April, May, of June, and July-flowers.
I sing of May-poles, hock-carts, wassails, wakes,
Of bridegrooms, brides, and of their bridal-cakes.
The Coming Of Good Luck
© Robert Herrick
So Good-Luck came, and on my roof did light,
Like noiseless snow, or as the dew of night;
Not all at once, but gently,--as the trees
Are by the sun-beams, tickled by degrees.
To Virgins, to Make Much of Time
© Robert Herrick
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old time is still a-flying
And this same flower that smiles today
Tomorrow will be dying.
To The Virgins, To Make Much Of Time
© Robert Herrick
Gather ye rose-buds while ye may:
Old Time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles to-day,
To-morrow will be dying.
To The Dead
© Frank Bidart
What I hope (when I hope) is that we'll
see each other again,--. . . and again reach the VEINin which we loved each other . .
It existed. It existed.There is a NIGHT within the NIGHT,--. . . for, like the detectives (the Ritz Brothers)
in The Gorilla,once we'd been battered by the gorillawe searched the walls, the intricately carved
Two Strangers Breakfast
© Carl Sandburg
THE LAW says you and I belong to each other, George.
The law says you are mine and I am yours, George.
And there are a million miles of white snowstorms, a million furnaces of hell,
Between the chair where you sit and the chair where I sit.
The law says two strangers shall eat breakfast together after nights on the horn of an Arctic moon.
Two Neighbors
© Carl Sandburg
FACES of two eternities keep looking at me.
One is Omar Khayam and the red stuff
wherein men forget yesterday and to-morrow
and remember only the voices and songs,
Two Items
© Carl Sandburg
STRONG rocks hold up the riksdag bridge
always strong river waters shoving their shoulders against them
In the riksdag to-night three hundred men are talking to each other about more potatoes and bread for the Swedish people to eat this winter.
In a boat among calm waters next to the running waters a fisherman sits in the dark and I, leaning at a parapet, see him lift a net and let it down
he waits
the waters run
the riksdag talks
he lifts the net and lets it down
Stars lost in the sky ten days of drizzle spread over the sky saying yes-yes.
Two
© Carl Sandburg
Memory of you is . . . a blue spear of flower.
I cannot remember the name of it.
Alongside a bold dripping poppy is fire and silk.
And they cover you.
Trinity Place
© Carl Sandburg
THE GRAVE of Alexander Hamilton is in Trinity yard at the end of Wall Street.
The grave of Robert Fulton likewise is in Trinity yard where Wall Street stops.
Trafficker
© Carl Sandburg
Among the shadows where two streets cross,
A woman lurks in the dark and waits
To move on when a policeman heaves in view.
Smiling a broken smile from a face
To Certain Journeymen
© Carl Sandburg
You handle dust going to a long country,
You know the secret behind your job is the same whether
you lower the coffin with modern, automatic machinery,
well-oiled and noiseless, or whether the
body is laid in by naked hands and then covered
by the shovels.
To Beachey, 1912
© Carl Sandburg
RIDING against the east,
A veering, steady shadow
Purrs the motor-call
Of the man-bird
To a Contemporary Bunkshooter
© Carl Sandburg
You come along squirting words at us, shaking your fist
and calling us all damn fools so fierce the froth slobbers
over your lips. . . always blabbing we're all
going to hell straight off and you know all about it.
Timber Wings
© Carl Sandburg
THERE was a wild pigeon came often to Hinkleys timber.
Gray wings that wrote their loops and triangles on the walnuts and the hazel.
Throwbacks
© Carl Sandburg
SOMEWHERE you and I remember we came.
Stairways from the sea and our heads dripping.
Ladders of dust and mud and our hair snarled.
Rags of drenching mist and our hands clawing, climbing.
