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Mark where the pressing wind shoots javelin-like
Martial, the things that do attain
Marvel of marvels, if I myself shall behold
Mary, art thou the little maid
Mary! I want a lyre with other strings
May! Be thou never graced with birds that sing
Me so oft my fancy drew
Merry Margaret
Methought I saw my late espoused Saint
Mild is the parting year, and sweet
Milton! I think thy spirit hath passed away
Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour
More love or more disdain I crave
Mortality, behold and fear!
Most glorious Lord of Lyfe! that, on this day
Mother, I cannot mind my wheel
Mother of Hermes! and still youthful Maia!
Move him into the sun
Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold
Music, when soft voices die
Must I then see, alas! eternal night
My arms have mutinied against me — brutes!
My days among the Dead are past
My delight and thy delight
My faint spirit was sitting in the light
My friend the Sun—like all my friends
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My heart is like a singing bird
My heart leaps up when I behold
My life closed twice before its close
My little Son, who look'd from thoughtful eyes
My Love is of a birth as rare
My love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seeming
My lover died a century ago
My lute, awake! perform the last
My mother bore me in the southern wild
My noble, lovely, little Peggy
My Phillis hath the morning sun
My silks and fine array
My soul looked down from a vague height with Death
My soul, sit thou a patient looker-on
My soul, there is a country
My thoughts hold mortal strife
My true love hath my heart, and I have his
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