Poems begining by O

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Ode in Memory of the American Volunteers Fallen for France

© Alan Seeger

IAy, it is fitting on this holiday,
Commemorative of our soldier dead,
When -- with sweet flowers of our New England May
Hiding the lichened stones by fifty years made gray --

On The Death Of A Favourite Old Spaniel

© Robert Southey

And they have drown'd thee then at last! poor Phillis!
The burthen of old age was heavy on thee.
And yet thou should'st have lived! what tho' thine eye
Was dim, and watch'd no more with eager joy

Ode Written On The First Of January

© Robert Southey

Come melancholy Moralizer--come!
Gather with me the dark and wintry wreath;
With me engarland now
The SEPULCHRE OF TIME!

Ode Written On The First Of December

© Robert Southey

Tho' now no more the musing ear
Delights to listen to the breeze
That lingers o'er the green wood shade,
I love thee Winter! well.

On Building With Stone

© Robinson Jeffers

To be an ape in little of the mountain-making mother
Like swarthy Cheops, but my own hands
For only slaves, is a far sweeter toil than to cut
Passions in verse for a sick people.

On a Theme by Frost

© Robert Francis

Amherst never had a witch
O Coos or of GraftonBut once upon a time
There were three old women.One wore a small beard
And carried a big umbrella.One stood in the middle

On Going Back To The Street After Viewing An Art Show

© Charles Bukowski

they talk down through
the centuries to us,
and this we need more and more,
the statues and paintings

On The Fire Suicides Of The Buddhists

© Charles Bukowski

you sophisticates
who lay back and
make statements of explanation,
I have seen the red rose burning
and this means more.

Out Of The Arm Of One Love...

© Charles Bukowski

out of the arm of one love
and into the arms of another
I have been saved from dying on the cross
by a lady who smokes pot

O, We Are The Outcasts

© Charles Bukowski

ah, christ, what a CREW:
more
poetry, always more
P O E T R Y .

Oh Yes

© Charles Bukowski

there are worse things than
being alone
but it often takes decades
to realize this

Our Boat Starts At Night

© Li Ching Chao

Great ships sail only for profit
Only small boats come here because of your fame.
The passers-by are embarrassed by your virtue.
So in the night we steal by the place where you used to fish.

Well, what I mean, that fucking car still runs,
Even the moths in the upholstery are old
But it gets around, you see one on the street
Beat-up and proud, well, Jeezus what a country,
Where even the monuments keep on the move."

Old St David's at Radnor

© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

What an image of peace and rest
Is this little church among its graves!
All is so quiet; the troubled breast,
The wounded spirit, the heart oppressed,
Here may find the repose it craves.

On No Work Of Words

© Dylan Thomas

On no work of words now for three lean months in the
bloody
Belly of the rich year and the big purse of my body
I bitterly take to task my poverty and craft:

Our Eunuch Dreams

© Dylan Thomas

Our eunuch dreams, all seedless in the light,
Of light and love the tempers of the heart,
Whack their boys' limbs,
And, winding-footed in their shawl and sheet,
Groom the dark brides, the widows of the night
Fold in their arms.

Once It Was The Colour Of Saying

© Dylan Thomas

Once it was the colour of saying
Soaked my table the uglier side of a hill
With a capsized field where a school sat still
And a black and white patch of girls grew playing;

O Make Me A Mask

© Dylan Thomas

O make me a mask and a wall to shut from your spies
Of the sharp, enamelled eyes and the spectacled claws
Rape and rebellion in the nurseries of my face,
Gag of dumbstruck tree to block from bare enemies