Poems begining by M

/ page 104 of 130 /

Order by :

1
. . .
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
. . .
130

Making It Work

© Philip Levine

3-foot blue cannisters of nitro
along a conveyor belt, slow fish
speaking the language of silence.
On the roof, I in my respirator

Making Light Of It

© Philip Levine

I call out a secret name, the name
of the angel who guards my sleep,
and light grows in the east, a new light
like no other, as soft as the petals

Milkweed

© Philip Levine

Remember how unimportant
they seemed, growing loosely
in the open fields we crossed
on the way to school. We

M. Degas Teaches Art & Science At Durfee Intermediate School--Detroit, 1942

© Philip Levine

He made a line on the blackboard,
one bold stroke from right to left
diagonally downward and stood back
to ask, looking as always at no one

My Fathers, The Baltic

© Philip Levine

Along the strand stones,
busted shells, wood scraps,
bottle tops, dimpled
and stainless beer cans.

My Native Land

© Sir Walter Scott

Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,

MacGregor's Gathering

© Sir Walter Scott

The moon's on the lake, and the mist's on the brae,
And the Clan has a name that is nameless by day;
Then gather, gather, gather, Grigalach!
Gather, gather, gather, &c.

Merry-Go-Round

© Langston Hughes

Where is the Jim Crow section

On this merry-go-round,

My Gentle Harp

© Thomas Moore

My gentle Harp, once more I waken
The sweetness of thy slumbering strain;
In tears our last farewell was taken,
And now in tears we meet again.

The Budget - quite charming and witty - no hearing,
For plaudits and laughs, the good things that were in it; --
Great comfort to find, though the Speech isn't cheering,
That all its gay auditors were, every minute.

Mattins

I cannot ope mine eyes,
But thou art ready there to catch
My morning-soul and sacrifice:
Then we must needs for that day make a match.

Mortification

How soon doth man decay!
When clothes are taken from a chest of sweets
To swaddle infants, whose young breath
Scarce knows the way;
Those clouts are little winding-sheets,
Which do consign and send them unto Death.

Man

My God, I heard this day,
That none doth build a stately habitation,
But he that means to dwell therein.
What house more stately hath there been,
Or can be, than is Man? to whose creation
All things are in decay.

Man's Medley

Hark, how the birds do sing,
And woods do ring!
All creatures have their joy, and man hath his.
Yet if we rightly measure,
Man's joy and pleasure
Rather hereafter than in present is.