Poems begining by T
/ page 875 of 916 /
The Old Man's Comforts and how he gained them
© Robert Southey
You are old, Father William, the young man cried,
The few locks which are left you are grey;
You are hale, Father William, a hearty old man,
Now tell me the reason I pray.
The Curse of Kehama
© Robert Southey
I charm thy life,
From the weapons of strife,
From stone and from wood,
From fire and from flood,
The Battle of Blenheim
© Robert Southey
It was a summer evening;
Old Kaspars work was done,
And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun;
And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.
The Knife
© Keith Douglas
Can I explain this to you? Your eyes
are entrances the mouths of caves
I issue from wonderful interiors
upon a blessed sea and a fine day,
from inside these caves I look and dream.
To A. L. Persuasions to Love.
© Thomas Carew
THINK not, 'cause men flattering say
You're fresh as April, sweet as May,
Bright as is the morning star,
That you are so ; or, though you are,
To Ben Jonson upon Occasion of his Ode of Defiance Annexed t
© Thomas Carew
'Tis true, dear Ben, thy just chastising hand
Hath fix'd upon the sotted age a brand
To their swoll'n pride and empty scribbling due;
It can nor judge, nor write, and yet 'tis true
To My Inconstant Mistress
© Thomas Carew
When thou, poor excommunicate
From all the joys of love, shalt see
The full reward and glorious fate
Which my strong faith shall purchase me,
Then curse thine own inconstancy.
The Primrose
© Thomas Carew
Ask me why I send you here
The firstling of the infant year;
Ask me why I send to you
This primrose all bepearled with dew:
The Unfading Beauty
© Thomas Carew
HE that loves a rosy cheek,
Or a coral lip admires,
Or from star-like eyes doth seek
Fuel to maintain his fires:
As old Time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.
The Spring
© Thomas Carew
Now that the winter's gone, the earth hath lost
Her snow-white robes, and now no more the frost
Candies the grass, or casts an icy cream
Upon the silver lake or crystal stream;
The Kiss
© Edith Nesbit
The snow is white on wood and wold,
The wind is in the firs,
So dead my heart is with the cold,
No pulse within it stirs,
The Island
© Edith Nesbit
Does the wind sing in your ears at night, in the town,
Rattling the windows and doors of the cheap-built place?
Do you hear its song as it flies over marsh and down?
Do you feel the kiss that the wind leaves here on my face?
The Despot
© Edith Nesbit
1 The garden mould was damp and chill,
2 Winter had had his brutal will
3 Since over all the year's content
4 His devastating legions went.
Tell Them
© Gary R. Ferris
They dont know it doesnt come from me.
*****
Maybe its me that doesnt get through,
The Farmers Seed
© Gary R. Ferris
And he hopes they will supply his needs.
*****
He doesnt know where or what to plant,
