Poems begining by T
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The Indifferent
© John Donne
I can love both fair and brown,
Her whom abundance melts, and her whom want betrays,
Her who loves loneness best, and her who masks and plays,
Her whom the country formed, and whom the town,
The Canonization
© John Donne
For God's sake hold your tongue, and let me love,
Or chide my palsy, or my gout,
My five grey hairs, or ruin'd fortune flout,
With wealth your state, your mind with arts improve,
The Bait
© John Donne
Come live with me, and be my love,
And we will some new pleasures prove,
Of golden sand, and crystal brooks,
With silken lines and silver hooks.
The Funeral
© John Donne
Whoever comes to shroud me, do not harm
Nor question much
That subtle wreath of hair which crowns my arm;
The mystery, the sign, you must not touch,
The Sun Rising
© John Donne
Busy old fool, unruly sun,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windows and through curtains, call on us?
Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run?
The Triple Fool
© John Donne
I am two fools, I know
For loving, and for saying so
In whining poetry;
But where's that wiseman that would not be I,
The Broken Heart
© John Donne
He is stark mad, who ever says,
That he hath been in love an hour,
Yet not that love so soon decays,
But that it can ten in less space devour;
The Flea
© John Donne
Mark but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that which thou deny'st me is;
It sucked me first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea our two bloods mingled be;
The Good-Morrow
© John Donne
I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I
Did, till we loved? were we not weaned till then,
But sucked on country pleasures, childishly?
Or snorted we in the seven sleepers' den?
The Desk, for Jeremy
© Michael Burch
There is a child I used to know
who sat, perhaps, at this same desk
where you sit now, and made a mess
of things sometimes. I wonder how
he learned at all ...
The Forge
© Michael Burch
To at last be indestructible, a poem
must first glow, almost flammable, upon
a thing inert, as gray, as dull as stone,
The Octopi Jars
© Michael Burch
Long-vacant eyes
now lodged in clear glass,
a-swim with pale arms
as delicate as angels ...
To Flower
© Michael Burch
We are not long for this earth, I know
you and I, all our petals incurled,
till a night of pale brilliance, moonflower aglow.
Is there love anywhere in this strange world?
The City Is A Garment
© Michael Burch
A rhinestone skein, a jeweled brocade of light,
the city is a garment stretched so thin
her festive colors bleed into the night,
and everywhere bright seams, unraveling,
The Peripheries of Love
© Michael Burch
Through waning afternoons we glide
the watery peripheries of love.
A silence, a quietude falls.
The Folly of Wisdom
© Michael Burch
She is wise in the way that children are wise,
looking at me with such knowing, grave eyes
I must bend down to her to understand.
But she only smiles, and takes my hand.
The Watch
© Michael Burch
Moonlight spills down vacant sills,
illuminates an empty bed.
Dreams lie in crates. One hand creates
wan silver circles, left unread
by its companion--unmoved now
by anything that lies ahead.
The Locker
© Michael Burch
All the dull hollow clamor has died
and what was contained,
removed,
reproved
The Cornel Grove
© Wang Wei
Bear fruit red and green
Again as if flower further open
Hill at if remain guest
Place here cornel cup
