Poems begining by O
/ page 106 of 137 /
Our Mother Pocahontas
© Vachel Lindsay
She sings of lilacs, maples, wheat,
Her own soil sings beneath her feet,
Of springtime
And Virginia,
Our Mother, Pocahontas.
On The Garden Wall
© Vachel Lindsay
Oh, once I walked a garden
In dreams. 'Twas yellow grass.
And many orange-trees grew there
In sand as white as glass.
On This Day Of Sky-Blue Bears
© Velimir Khlebnikov
On this day of sky-blue bears
Running across quiet eyelashes,
I divine beyond the blue waters
In the cup of my eyes an order to wake.
Ode in Honour
© Francis Scarfe
Evening is part of the jig-saw truth of her,
ply-wood ply-flesh, her insolent reply
blinding the ace with a straight shot to centre,
the woman's a delicate devil in twenty places
blander and blonder, tinder tenderly
setting the smiles on fire in men's faces.
Only A Sod
© Henry Lawson
It's only a sod, but twill break me ould heart
Nigh hardened wid toilin and carin,
And make the ould wounds in it tingle and smart.
Its only a sod, but its parcel and part
Of strugglin, sufferin Erin.
One With Nature
© George MacDonald
I have a fellowship with every shade
Of changing nature: with the tempest hour
Out Of The Sighs
© Dylan Thomas
Were that enough, bone, blood, and sinew,
The twisted brain, the fair-formed loin,
Groping for matter under the dog's plate,
Man should be cured of distemper.
For all there is to give I offer:
Crumbs, barn, and halter.
Outsong in the Jungle
© Rudyard Kipling
For the sake of him who showed
One wise Frog the Jungle-Road,
Keep the Law the Man-Pack make
For thy blind old Baloo's sake!
Our Fathers Also
© Rudyard Kipling
The grapes are pressed, the corn is shocked--
Standeth no more to glean;
For the Gates of Love and Learning locked
When they went out between.
Oonts
© Rudyard Kipling
Wot makes the soldier's 'eart to penk, wot makes 'im to perspire?
It isn't standin' up to charge nor lyin' down to fire;
But it's everlastin' waitin' on a everlastin' road
For the commissariat camel an' 'is commissariat load.
One Viceroy Resigns
© Rudyard Kipling
So here's your Empire. No more wine, then?
Good.
We'll clear the Aides and khitmatgars away.
(You'll know that fat old fellow with the knife --
Oh! Death Will Find Me, Long Before I Tire
© Rupert Brooke
Oh! Death will find me, long before I tire
Of watching you; and swing me suddenly
On An Air Of Rameau
© Arthur Symons
A melancholy desire of ancient things
Floats like a faded perfume out of the wires;
Pallid lovers, what unforgotten desires,
Whispered once, are retold in your whisperings?
On A Portrait Of Dante By Giotto
© James Russell Lowell
Can this be thou who, lean and pale,
With such immitigable eye
On A Fan
© Henry Austin Dobson
Where are the secrets it knew?
Weavings of plot and of plan?
But where is the Pompadour, too?
This was the Pompadours Fan!
Ossians Poems
© Madison Julius Cawein
Here I have heard on hills the battle clash
Roar to the windy sea that roared again:
On Miltiades
© William Cowper
Miltiades! thy valor best
(Although in every region known)
The men of Persia can attest,
Taught by thyself at Marathon.
