Poems begining by T
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The Potato Harvest
© Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
A high bare field, brown from the plough, and borne Aslant from sunset; amber wastes of sky Washing the ridge; a clamour of crows that flyIn from the wide flats where the spent tides mournTo yon their rocking roosts in pines wind-torn; A line of grey snake-fence, that zigzags by A pond and cattle; from the homestead nighThe long deep summonings of the supper horn
The Iceberg
© Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
I was spawned from the glacier,A thousand miles due northBeyond Cape Chidley;And the spawning,When my vast, wallowing bulk went under,Emerged and heaved aloft,Shaking down cataracts from its rocking sides,With mountainous surge and thunderOutraged the silence of the Arctic sea
The Herring Weir
© Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
Back to the green deeps of the outer bay The red and amber currents glide and cringe, Diminishing behind a luminous fringeOf cream-white surf and wandering wraiths of spray
The Great and Little Weavers
© Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
The great and the little weavers,They neither rest nor sleep.They work in the height and the glory,They toil in the dark and the deep.
The Frosted Pane
© Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
One night came Winter noiselessly, and leaned Against my window-pane.In the deep stillness of his heart convened The ghosts of all his slain.
The Departing of Gluskâp
© Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
It is so long ago; and men well-nighForget what gladness was, and how the earthGave corn in plenty, and the rivers fish,And the woods meat, before he went away.His going was on this wise.
The Cow Pasture
© Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
I see the harsh, wind-ridden, eastward hill, By the red cattle pastured, blanched with dew; The small, mossed hillocks where the clay gets through;The grey webs woven on milkweed tops at will
The Grey-Eyed King
© Anna Akhmatova
Hail! Hail to thee, o, immovable pain!
The young grey-eyed king had been yesterday slain.
The Finger Puppets in the Attic Dollhouse
© Reibetanz John
If they, more petite than the mice whose flittings have pillaged their robes' sparkled trim,
The Contractor
© Reibetanz John
When God made me, there was a war on:Supplies were scarce, so He did it on the cheap.Oh, not that He produced a moronOr paraplegic by starving my fetal sleep --
The Babie
© Rankin Jeremiah Eames
NAE shoon to hide her tiny taes, Nae stockin' on her feet;Her supple ankles white as snaw, Or early blossoms sweet.
To a Lady with an Unruly and Ill-mannered Dog Who Bit several Persons of Importance
© Raleigh Walter Alexander
Your dog is not a dog of grace;He does not wag the tail or beg;He bit Miss Dickson in the face;He bit a Bailie in the leg.
The Artist
© Raleigh Walter Alexander
The Artist and his Luckless WifeThey lead a horrid haunted life,Surrounded by the things he's madeThat are not wanted by the trade.
The Passionate Man's Pilgrimage
© Ralegh Sir Walter
[Supposed to be written by one at the point of death]
The Nymph's Reply
© Ralegh Sir Walter
If all the world and love were young,And truth in every shepherd's tongue,These pretty pleasures might me moveTo live with thee and be thy love.
To A Lady, She Refusing to Continue a Dispute with me, and Leaving me in the Argument: An Ode
© Matthew Prior
Spare, gen'rous victor, spare the slave, Who did unequal war pursue;That more than triumph he might have, In being overcome by you.
To a Child of Quality, Five Years Old, the Author Suppos'd Forty
© Matthew Prior
Lords, knights, and squires, the num'rous band, That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters,Were summon'd by her high command, To show their passions by their letters.
The Iliad, Book XII
© Alexander Pope
Furious he spoke, and rushing to the wall,Calls on his host; his host obey the call;With ardour follow where their leader flies:Redoubling clamours thunder in the skies
