Poems begining by T
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The Relapse
© Henry Vaughan
My God, how gracious art thou! I had slipt
Almost to hell,
And on the verge of that dark, dreadful pit
Did hear them yell,
The Nativity
© Henry Vaughan
Peace? and to all the world? sure, One
And He the Prince of Peace, hath none.
He travels to be born, and then
Is born to travel more again.
The Evening-Watch: A Dialogue
© Henry Vaughan
3 Go, sleep in peace; and when thou liest
4 Unnumber'd in thy dust, when all this frame
5 Is but one dram, and what thou now descriest
6 In sev'ral parts shall want a name,
7 Then may his peace be with thee, and each dust
8 Writ in his book, who ne'er betray'd man's trust!
The Old And The New Masters
© Randall Jarrell
About suffering, about adoration, the old masters
Disagree. When someone suffers, no one else eats
Or walks or opens the window--no one breathes
As the sufferers watch the sufferer.
The Orient Express
© Randall Jarrell
One looks from the train
Almost as one looked as a child. In the sunlight
What I see still seems to me plain,
I am safe; but at evening
The House In The Woods
© Randall Jarrell
At the back of the houses there is the wood.
While there is a leaf of summer left, the woodMakes sounds I can put somewhere in my song,
Has paths I can walk, when I wake, to goodOr evil: to the cage, to the oven, to the House
In the Wood. It is a part of life, or of the storyWe make of life. But after the last leaf,
The Elementary Scene
© Randall Jarrell
Looking back in my mind I can see
The white sun like a tin plate
Over the wooden turning of the weeds;
The street jerking --a wet swing--
The Breath Of Night
© Randall Jarrell
The moon rises. The red cubs rolling
In the ferns by the rotten oak
Stare over a marsh and a meadow
To the farm's white wisp of smoke.
The Player Piano
© Randall Jarrell
I ate pancakes one night in a Pancake House
Run by a lady my age. She was gay.
When I told her that I came from Pasadena
She laughed and said, "I lived in Pasadena
When Fatty Arbuckle drove the El Molino bus."
The Black Swan
© Randall Jarrell
When the swans turned my sister into a swan
I would go to the lake, at night, from milking:
The sun would look out through the reeds like a swan,
A swan's red beak; and the beak would open
And inside there was darkness, the stars and the moon.
The Refugees
© Randall Jarrell
In the shabby train no seat is vacant.
The child in the ripped mask
Sprawls undisturbed in the waste
Of the smashed compartment. Is their calm extravagant?
The Woman At The Washington Zoo
© Randall Jarrell
The saris go by me from the embassies.Cloth from the moon. Cloth from another planet.
They look back at the leopard like the leopard.And I. . . .
this print of mine, that has kept its color
Alive through so many cleanings; this dull null
The Olive Garden
© Randall Jarrell
(Rainer Maria Rilke)He went up under the gray leaves
All gray and lost in the olive lands
And laid his forehead, gray with dust,
Deep in the dustiness of his hot hands.
The Death Of The Ball Turret Gunner
© Randall Jarrell
From my mother's sleep I fell into the State,
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,
I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.
The Hideous Chair
© Erin Belieu
This hideous,
upholstered in gift-wrap fabric, chromed
in places, design possibility
The Man With The Hoe
© Edwin Markham
BOWED by the weight of centuries he leans
Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground,
The emptiness of ages in his face,
And on his back the burden of the world.
The Invisible Bride
© Edwin Markham
THE low-voiced girls that go
In gardens of the Lord,
Like flowers of the field they grow
In sisterly accord.
Thrushes
© Siegfried Sassoon
Tossed on the glittering air they soar and skim,
Whose voices make the emptiness of light
A windy palace. Quavering from the brim
Of dawn, and bold with song at edge of night,
Two Hundred Years After
© Siegfried Sassoon
But when he'd told his tale, an old man said
That he'd seen soldiers pass along that hill;
'Poor silent things, they were the English dead
Who came to fight in France and got their fill.'
The Choral Union
© Siegfried Sassoon
He staggered in from night and frost and fog
And lampless streets: hed guzzled like a hog
And drunk till he was dazed. And now he came
To hearhe couldnt call to mind the name
But hed been given a ticket for the show,
And thought hed (hiccup) chance his luck and go.
