Poems begining by T
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The Song Maker
© Sara Teasdale
I made a hundred little songs
That told the joy and pain of love,
And sang them blithely, tho' I knew
No whit thereof.
The Letter
© Thomas Bailey Aldrich
I held his letter in my hand,
And even while I read
The lightning flashed across the land
The word that he was dead.
The Tunning of Elenor Rumming
© John Skelton
Some renne tyll they swete,
Brynge wyth them malte or whete,
And dame Elynour entrete
To byrle them of the best.
The Emigrants Monument At Point St. Charles
© Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
A kindly thought, a generous deed,
Ye gallant sons of toil!
No nobler trophy could ye raise
On your adopted soil
Than this monument to your kindred dead,
Who sleep beneath in their cold, dark bed.
The Song of Harold Harfager
© Sir Walter Scott
The sun is rising dimly red,
The wind is wailing low and dread;
The Song Of Theodolinda
© George Meredith
Mark the skeleton of fire
Lightening from its thunder-roof:
So comes this that saw expire
Him we love, for our behoof!
Red of heat, O white of heat,
This from off the Cross we greet.
The Patient's Sweater
© Boris Pasternak
A life of its own and a long one is led
By this penguin, with nothing to do with the breast-
The wingless pullover, the patient's old vest;
Now pass it some warmth, move the lamp to the bed.
The Ballad Of God-Makers
© Gilbert Keith Chesterton
A bird flew out at the break of day
From the nest where it had curled,
And ere the eve the bird had set
Fear on the kings of the world.
The Poor Man Dreams
© Arthur Rimbaud
Perhaps an Evening awaits me
when I shall drink I peace in some old Town,
The Kitten And Falling Leaves
© William Wordsworth
That way look, my Infant, lo!
What a pretty baby-show!
See the kitten on the wall,
Twilight and I Went Hand in Hand
© Lucy Maud Montgomery
Twilight and I went hand in hand,
As lovers walk in shining Mays,
O'er musky, memory-haunted ways,
Across a lonely harvest-land,
Where west winds chanted in the wheat
An old, old vesper wondrous sweet.
The Song Of The Builder
© Edgar Albert Guest
I sink my piers to the solid rock,
And I send my steel to the sky,
And I pile up the granite, block by block
Full twenty stories high;
Nor wind nor weather shall wash away
The thing that I've builded, day by day.
The Poetry Of Southey
© George Meredith
Keen as an eagle whose flight towards the dim empyrean
Fearless of toil or fatigue ever royally wends!
Vast in the cloud-coloured robes of the balm-breathing Orient
Lo! the grand Epic advances, unfolding the humanest truth.
The Balcony
© Muriel Stuart
A STREET at night, a silent square
That mirth forbids;
Whose windows, with drawn lips and narrowed lids,
Resent the intruder's stare.
The House Of Dust: Part 02: 02:
© Conrad Aiken
More towers must yet be builtmore towers destroyed
Great rocks hoisted in air;
The Things That Matter
© Edith Nesbit
NOW that I've nearly done my days,
And grown too stiff to sweep or sew,
The New Birth
© Jones Very
A new life;-thoughts move not as they did
With slow uncertain steps across my mind,
