Poems begining by O
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Outside The Crowd
© George Meredith
To sit on History in an easy chair,
Still rivalling the wild hordes by whom 'twas writ!
Ole Tam On Bord-A-Plouffe
© William Henry Drummond
I lak on summer ev'ning, w'en nice cool win' is blowin'
An' up above ma head, I hear de pigeon on de roof,
To bring ma chair an' sit dere, an' watch de current flowin'
Of ole Riviere des Prairies as she pass de Bord-a Plouffe.
Over The Water
© Wilcox Ella Wheeler
Think of it, think of it over the water
Thousands of men to-day march on to death,
Think how the sun shines on fields red with slaughter-
How the air chokes, with the cannon's hot breath.
Ower The Hedge
© George MacDonald
"Bonny lassie, rosy lassie,
Ken ye what is care?
Had ye ever a thought, lassie,
Made yer hertie sair?"
O, Pity The Slave Mother
© Anonymous
I pity the slave mother, careworn and weary,
Who sighs as she presses her babe to her breast;
"O you, dear trees, you have learned so much of beauty"
© Lesbia Harford
O you, dear trees, you have learned so much of beauty,
You must have studied this only the ages long!
Men have thought of God and laughter and duty.
And of love. And of song.
On The Same (Oure Ladies Chyrche)
© Thomas Chatterton
STAY, curyous traveller, and pass not bye,
Until this fetive pile astounde thine eye.
Outlaws
© Robert Graves
Owls: they whinney down the night,
Bats go zigzag by.
Ambushed in shadow out of sight
The outlaws lie.
On The Hoop
© James Thomson
The hoop, the darling justly of the fair,
Of every generous swain deserves the care.
On The Vowels
© Jonathan Swift
We are little airy creatures,
All of different voice and features;
One of us in glass is set,
One of us you'll find in jet.
"Only A Year"
© Harriet Beecher Stowe
One year ago,--a ringing voice,
A clear blue eye,
And clustering curls of sunny hair,
Too fair to die.
O Night O Trembling Night
© Stephen Spender
O night O trembling night O night of sighs
O night when my body was a rod O night
When my mouth was a vague animal cry
Pasturing on her flesh O night
When the close darkness was a nest
Made of her hair and filled with my eyes
On Cutting Down The Thorn At Market-Hill
© Jonathan Swift
At Market-Hill, as well appears
By chronicle of ancient date,
There stood for many hundred years
A spacious thorn before the gate.
On A Circle
© Jonathan Swift
I'm up and down, and round about,
Yet all the world can't find me out;
Though hundreds have employ'd their leisure,
They never yet could find my measure.
Ode
© Richard Lovelace
I.
You are deceiv'd; I sooner may, dull fair,
Seat a dark Moor in Cassiopea's chair,
Or on the glow-worm's uselesse light
On The Mississippi
© Hamlin Garland
Through wild and tangled forests
The broad, unhasting river flows-
Old Dog Tray
© Stephen C. Foster
THE morn of life is past,
And ev'ning comes at last;
It brings me a dream of a once happy day,
Of merry forms I've seen
