Music, when soft voices die : 
My coursers are fed with the lightning : 
My dearest Mary, wherefore hast thou gone : 
My faint spirit was sitting in the light : 
My head is heavy, my limbs are weary : 
My head is wild with weeping for a grief : 
My lost William, thou in whom : 
My Song, I fear that thou wilt find but few : 
My soul is an enchanted boat : 
My spirit like a charmed bark doth swim : 
My thoughts arise and fade in solitude : 
My wings are folded o’er mine ears : 

Night, with all thine eyes look down! : 
Night! with all thine eyes look down! : 
No access to the Duke!  You have not said : 
No, Music, thou art not the ‘food of Love’ : 
No trump tells thy virtues : 
Nor happiness, nor majesty, nor fame : 
Not far from hence.  From yonder pointed hill : 
Now had the loophole of that dungeon, still : 
Now the last day of many days : 

O Bacchus, what a world of toil, both now : 
O happy Earth! reality of Heaven : 
O Mary dear, that you were here : 
O mighty mind, in whose deep stream this age : 
O pillow cold and wet with tears! : 
O Slavery! thou frost of the world’s prime : 
O that a chariot of cloud were mine! : 
O that mine enemy had written : 
O thou bright Sun! beneath the dark blue line : 
O thou immortal deity : 
O thou, who plumed with strong desire : 
O universal Mother, who dost keep : 
O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being : 
O world!  O life!  O time! : 
Offspring of Jove, Calliope, once more : 
Oh! did you observe the black Canon pass : 
Oh! take the pure gem to where southerly breezes : 
Oh! there are spirits of the air : 
Oh! what is the gain of restless care : 
On a battle-trumpet’s blast : 
On a poet’s lips I slept : 
On the brink of the night and the morning : 
Once, early in the morning : 
One sung of thee who left the tale untold : 
One word is too often profaned : 
Orphan Hours, the Year is dead : 
Our boat is asleep on Serchio’s stream : 
Our spoil is won : 
Out of the eastern shadow of the Earth : 
Over the utmost hill at length I sped : 

Palace-roof of cloudless nights! : 
Pan loved his neighbour Echo—­but that child : 
People of England, ye who toil and groan : 
Peter Bells, one, two and three : 
Place, for the Marshal of the Masque! : 
Poet of Nature, thou hast wept to know : 
Prince Athanase had one beloved friend : 

Rarely, rarely, comest thou : 
Reach me that handkerchief!—­My brain is hurt : 
Returning from its daily quest, my Spirit : 
Rome has fallen, ye see it lying : 
Rough wind, that moanest loud :