Poems begining by O
/ page 103 of 137 /
Olney Hymn 20: Old Testament Gospel
© William Cowper
Israel in ancient days
Not only had a view
Of Sinai in a blaze,
But learn'd the Gospel too;
The types and figures were a glass,
In which thy saw a Saviour's face.
Other May Praise What They Like
© Walt Whitman
OTHERS may praise what they like;
But I, from the banks of the running Missouri, praise nothing, in
art, or aught else,
Till it has well inhaled the atmosphere of this river-also the
western prairie-scent,
And fully exudes it again.
On The Eating Of Mice
© Russell Edson
Twenty years of this: curried mouse, garlic and butter
mouse, mouse sauteed in its own fur, Salisbury mouse,
mouse-in-the-trap, baked in the very trap that killed it,
mouse tartare, mouse poached in menstrual blood at the full
of the moon . . .
One Lonely Afternoon
© Russell Edson
Since the fern can't go to the sink for a drink of
water, I graciously submit myself to the task, bringing two
glasses from the sink.
And so we sit, the fern and I, sipping water together.
Of The Mole In The Ground
© John Bunyan
The mole's a creature very smooth and slick,
She digs i' th' dirt, but 'twill not on her stick;
Outcast
© Claude McKay
For the dim regions whence my fathers came
My spirit, bondaged by the body, longs.
Words felt, but never heard, my lips would frame;
My soul would sing forgotten jungle songs.
On the Road
© Claude McKay
Roar of the rushing train fearfully rocking,
Impatient people jammed in line for food,
The rasping noise of cars together knocking,
And worried waiters, some in ugly mood,
On Broadway
© Claude McKay
About me young careless feet
Linger along the garish street;
Above, a hundred shouting signs
Shed down their bright fantastic glow
O Word I Love to Sing
© Claude McKay
O word I love to sing! thou art too tender
For all the passions agitating me;
For all my bitterness thou art too tender,
I cannot pour my red soul into thee.
Outside the Curtains the Rain is Murmuring
© Li Yu
Outside the curtains the rain is murmering,
And spring is waning,
Ode To Cheerfulness
© Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Guide me to thy fav'rite bow'rs,
To deck thy rural shrine with flow'rs.
In thy lowly, sylvan cell,
Peace and virtue love to dwell;
Ever let me own thy sway,
Still to thee my tribute pay.
On Quitting
© Edgar Albert Guest
How much grit do you think you've got?Can you quit a thing that you like a lot?You may talk of pluck; it's an easy word,And where'er you go it is often heard;But can you tell to a jot or guessJust how much courage you now possess?
You may stand to trouble and keep your grin,But have you tackled self-discipline?Have you ever issued commands to youTo quit the things that you like to do,And then, when tempted and sorely swayed,Those rigid orders have you obeyed?
Don't boast of your grit till you've tried it out,Nor prate to men of your courage stout,For it's easy enough to retain a grinIn the face of a fight there's a chance to win,But the sort of grit that is good to ownIs the stuff you need when you're all alone
On Being Brought from Africa to America
© Phillis Wheatley
'Twas mercy brought me from my Pagan land,
Taught my benighted soul to understand
Ode
© Ralph Waldo Emerson
O tenderly the haughty day
Fills his blue urn with fire;
One morn is in the mighty heaven,
And one in our desire.
On A Mountain Top
© Alfred Noyes
On this high altar, fringed with ferns
That darken against the sky,
The dawn in lonely beauty burns
And all our evils die.
On Fields O'er Which the Reaper's Hand has Passed
© Henry David Thoreau
On fields o'er which the reaper's hand has pass'd
Lit by the harvest moon and autumn sun,
My thoughts like stubble floating in the wind
And of such fineness as October airs,
On A Miser, 2 (From The Greek)
© William Cowper
A miser traversing his house,
Espied, unusual there, a mouse,
On A Recently Finished Statue
© Sydney Thompson Dobell
Said Sculptor to immaculate marble-'Show
Thine essence; into necessary space
