Poems begining by T
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The Fruit Shop
© Amy Lowell
Cross-ribboned shoes; a muslin gown,
High-waisted, girdled with bright blue;
A straw poke bonnet which hid the frown
She pluckered her little brows into
The Way
© Amy Lowell
At first a mere thread of a footpath half blotted
out by the grasses
Sweeping triumphant across it, it wound between hedges of roses
Whose blossoms were poised above leaves as pond lilies float on
The Taxi
© Amy Lowell
When I go away from you
The world beats dead
Like a slackened drum.
I call out for you against the jutted stars
The Crescent Moon
© Amy Lowell
Slipping softly through the sky
Little horned, happy moon,
Can you hear me up so high?
Will you come down soon?
To a Friend
© Amy Lowell
I ask but one thing of you, only one,
That always you will be my dream of you;
That never shall I wake to find untrue
All this I have believed and rested on,
Travel
© Robert Louis Stevenson
I should like to rise and go
Where the golden apples grow;--
Where below another sky
Parrot islands anchored lie,
To Willie and Henrietta
© Robert Louis Stevenson
If two may read aright
These rhymes of old delight
And house and garden play,
You too, my cousins, and you only, may.
To What Shall I Compare Her?
© Robert Louis Stevenson
TO what shall I compare her,
That is as fair as she?
For she is fairer - fairer
Than the sea.
To the Muse
© Robert Louis Stevenson
Resign the rhapsody, the dream,
To men of larger reach;
Be ours the quest of a plain theme,
The piety of speech.
To The Commissioners Of Northern Lights
© Robert Louis Stevenson
I SEND to you, commissioners,
A paper that may please ye, sirs
(For troth they say it might be worse
An' I believe't)
And on your business lay my curse
Before I leav't.
To Sydney
© Robert Louis Stevenson
NOT thine where marble-still and white
Old statues share the tempered light
And mock the uneven modern flight,
But in the stream
Of daily sorrow and delight
To seek a theme.
To Rosabelle
© Robert Louis Stevenson
WHEN my young lady has grown great and staid,
And in long raiment wondrously arrayed,
She may take pleasure with a smile to know
How she delighted men-folk long ago.
To Ottilie
© Robert Louis Stevenson
YOU remember, I suppose,
How the August sun arose,
And how his face
Woke to trill and carolette
All the cages that were set
About the place.
To My Name-Child
© Robert Louis Stevenson
Some day soon this rhyming volume, if you learn with proper speed,
Little Louis Sanchez, will be given you to read.
Then you shall discover, that your name was printed down
By the English printers, long before, in London town.
To My Mother
© Robert Louis Stevenson
You too, my mother, read my rhymes
For love of unforgotten times,
And you may chance to hear once more
The little feet along the floor.
To Mrs. Macmarland
© Robert Louis Stevenson
IN Schnee der Alpen - so it runs
To those divine accords - and here
We dwell in Alpine snows and suns,
A motley crew, for half the year:
To Miss Cornish
© Robert Louis Stevenson
THEY tell me, lady, that to-day
On that unknown Australian strand -
Some time ago, so far away -
Another lady joined the band.
To Minnie
© Robert Louis Stevenson
The red room with the giant bed
Where none but elders laid their head;
The little room where you and I
Did for awhile together lie
To Mesdames Zassetsky And Garschine
© Robert Louis Stevenson
THE wind may blaw the lee-gang way
And aye the lift be mirk an' gray,
An deep the moss and steigh the brae
Where a' maun gang -
There's still an hoor in ilka day
For luve and sang.
To Marcus
© Robert Louis Stevenson
YOU have been far, and I
Been farther yet,
Since last, in foul or fair
An impecunious pair,
Below this northern sky
Of ours, we met.
