Sir Thomas More Poems - Poems about Sir Thomas More

SIR THOMAS WYATT TRANSLATIONS 2 What menethe this? by Sir Thomas Wyatt, circa early 16th century loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch WHAT does this mean, when I lie alone? I toss, I turn, I sigh, I groan; My bed seems near as hard as stone: What means this? I sigh, I plain continually; The clothes that on my bed do lie, Always, methinks, they...

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SIR THOMAS WYATT TRANSLATIONS 1 Whoso List to Hunt ("Whoever Longs to Hunt") by Sir Thomas Wyatt loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch Whoever longs to hunt, I know the deer; but as for me, alas!, I may no more. This vain pursuit has left me so bone-sore I'm one of those who falters, at the rear. Yet friend, how can I draw...

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Make your way through the parlous fog and place your trust in God, As heather, moss and bracken fern embrace the peaty sod. Take the fork at the Roman road that seems the wilder choice, Then wander down, my bonny lass, and listen for my voice. Cross the trace of the tumble-wall that borders on the glen. Flee...

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World War II vet, aged one hundred, once risked his life for his mother land. His country in a Covid war, he once again lent them a hand. Once youthful legs now needing aid of walkers, this Thomas Moore did give the battle-strength he still possessed, so that Covid patients might live. One hundred laps around his yard with his walker, he raised some...

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Have a question 'bout The British Isles My friend Thomas could answer with a smile But might be bias Prejudice, righteous When first becoming friends, thought he was royalty...

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Dear Sir Thomas: Angels never fly too far away. Cherubs are pious messengers cloaked in ribbed-serpentine streamers; bathing themselves in a bemused shower of rainbow-lit banderoles. Stifled in an unseen internal silence - a clandestine court of guardians; our private angels, unassumingly, fold their winged extremities and gloriously chant messianic chorales without an operatic note perceived. No gestures. Nothing mumbled. The chosen few... we know better. Dear Sir Thomas: Weren't we uproarious then? Biting our lips and neurotically watching re-runs...

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