Poems begining by M

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Muerte De Anto?ito El Camborio

© Federico Garcia Lorca

Voces de muerte sonaron
cerca del Guadalquivir.
Voces antiguas que cercan
voz de clavel varonil.

My Song

© Rabindranath Tagore

This song of mine will wind its music around you, my child, like
the fond arms of love.
This song of mine will touch your forehead like a kiss of
blessing.

I ask for a moment's indulgence to sit by thy side. The works
that I have in hand I will finish afterwards. Away from the sight of thy face my heart knows no rest nor respite,
and my work becomes an endless toil in a shoreless sea of toil. Today the summer has come at my window with its sighs and murmurs; and
the bees are plying their minstrelsy at the court of the flowering grove. Now it is time to sit quite, face to face with thee, and to sing

Maya

© Rabindranath Tagore

That I should make much of myself and turn it on all sides,
thus casting colored shadows on thy radiance
---such is thy Maya.

Municipal Gum

© Oodgeroo Noonuccal

Gumtree in the city street,
Hard bitumen around your feet,
Rather you should be
In the cool world of leafy forest halls

My Last Dance

© Julia Ward Howe

Then, like a gallant swimmer, flinging high
My breast against the golden waves of sound,
I rode the madd'ning tumult of the dance,
Mocking fatigue, that never could be found.

Mother's Day Proclamation

© Julia Ward Howe

Arise then...women of this day!
Arise, all women who have hearts!
Whether your baptism be of water or of tears!
Say firmly:

Mother Mind

© Julia Ward Howe

I never made a poem, dear friend--I never sat me down, and said,This cunning brain and patient handShall fashion something to be read.

More Than Suspect

© Eavan Boland

The oaks are stricken by a serious illness
They dry up after having let go
Into the glow of a sump at sunset
A whole throng of generals' heads

My Country in Darkness

© Eavan Boland

This is a man
on the road from Youghal to Cahirmoyle.
He has no comfort, no food and no future.
He has no fire to recite his friendless measures by.
His riddles and flatteries will have no reward.
His patrons sheath their swords in Flanders and Madrid.

My Delight and Thy Delight

© Robert Seymour Bridges

My delight and thy delight
Walking, like two angels white,
In the gardens of the night:

Melancholia

The sickness of desire, that in dark days
Looks on the imagination of despair,
Forgetteth man, and stinteth God his praise;
Nor but in sleep findeth a cure for care.

Moorland pool

© Ian Emberson

Socket in peat-skinned skull of hill
watching through Cyclops eye,
the white-limbed clouds trapezing still
that circus ring of sky.

Methought I Saw My Late Espoused Saint

© John Milton

Methought I saw my late espoused Saint
Brought to me like Alcestus from the grave,
Who Jove's great Son to her glad Husband gave,
Rescu'd from death by force though pale and faint.