Poems begining by O
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On The Final Submission Of The Tyrolese
© William Wordsworth
IT was a 'moral' end for which they fought;
Else how, when mighty Thrones were put to shame,
Could they, poor Shepherds, have preserved an aim,
A resolution, or enlivening thought?
On
© Bob Kaufman
On yardbird corners of embryonic hopes, drowned in a heroin tear.
On yardbird corners of parkerflights to sound filled pockets in space.
On neuro-corners of striped brains & desperate electro-surgeons.
On alcohol corners of pointless discussion & historical hangovers.
Ode On The Death Of A Favourite Cat Drowned In A Tub Of Gold Fishes
© Thomas Gray
Twas on a lofty vase's side,
Where China's gayest art had dyed
The azure flowers that blow;
Demurest of the tabby kind,
The pensive Selima, reclined,
Gazed on the lake below.
On The Same By Palladas
© William Cowper
A Spartan 'scaping from the fight,
His mother met him in his flight,
"O little year, cram full of duty"
© Lesbia Harford
O little year, cram full of duty,
Rapture and sorrow, too,
Show me the way from old paths of beauty
Into the fields of dew.
Ordinary Miracles
© Erica Jong
Spring, rainbows,
ordinary miracles
about which
nothing new can be said.
Ode To a Chestnut on the Ground
© Pablo Neruda
From bristly foliage
you fell
complete, polished wood, gleaming mahogany,
as perfect
Orpheus
© Percy Bysshe Shelley
What wondrous sound is that, mournful and faint,
But more melodious than the murmuring wind
Which through the columns of a temple glides?
Ode To a Lemon
© Pablo Neruda
Out of lemon flowers
loosed
on the moonlight, love's
lashed and insatiable
Ode To Salt
© Pablo Neruda
In its caves
the salt moans, mountain
of buried light,
translucent cathedral,
crystal of the sea, oblivion
of the waves.
On Mr Colliers Essay On The Stage
© Thomas Parnell
Thus (say the bards) some worthy knight maintains
A warr wth fairy states, enchanted scenes,
When he moves on the bright delusion fly's,
& dismall dungeons gape before his eyes
Ode To Wine
© Pablo Neruda
Day-colored wine,
night-colored wine,
wine with purple feet
or wine with topaz blood,
On the Funeral of Charles the First
© William Lisle Bowles
The castle clock had tolled midnight:
With mattock and with spade,
And silent, by the torches' light,
His corse in earth we laid.
