Temptation
Thanksgiving Poem, A
Then and Now
Theology
Thou Art My Lute
Till The Wind Gets Right
Time To Tinker 'Roun'!
To a Captious Critic
To A Dead Friend
To A Lady Playing The Harp
To A Violet Found on All Saint's
To An Ingrate
To Dan
To Dr. James Newton Matthews
To E. H. K.
To Her
To J. Q.
To Louise
To Miss Mary Britton
To Pfrimmer
To The Eastern Shore
To the Memory of Mary Young
To the Miami
To The Road
To the South
Trouble In De Kitchen
Tryst, The
Turning Of The Babies In The Bed, The
Twell De Night Is Pas'
Twilight
Two Little Boots
Two Songs
How's a man to write a sonnet, can you tell,--
How's he going to weave the dim, poetic spell,--
When a-todling on the floor
Is the muse he must adore,
And this muse he loves, not wisely, but too well?
Now, to write a sonnet, every one allows,
One must always be as quiet as a mouse;
But to write one seems to me
Quite superfluous to be,
When you've got a little sonnet in the house.
Just a dainty little poem, true and fine,
That is full of love and life in every line,
Earnest, delicate, and sweet,
Altogether so complete
That I wonder what's the use of writing mine.
