Poems begining by O
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On Journeys Through The States.
© Walt Whitman
ON journeys through the States we start,
(Ay, through the worldurged by these songs,
Sailing henceforth to every landto every sea;)
We, willing learners of all, teachers of all, and lovers of all.
Of Him I Love Day and Night.
© Walt Whitman
OF him I love day and night, I dreamd I heard he was dead;
And I dreamd I went where they had buried him I lovebut he was not in that
place;
And I dreamd I wanderd, searching among burial-places, to find him;
O Living AlwaysAlways Dying.
© Walt Whitman
O LIVING alwaysalways dying!
O the burials of me, past and present!
O me, while I stride ahead, material, visible, imperious as ever!
O me, what I was for years, now dead, (I lament notI am content;)
Old Ireland.
© Walt Whitman
FAR hence, amid an isle of wondrous beauty,
Crouching over a grave, an ancient, sorrowful mother,
Once a queennow lean and tatterd, seated on the ground,
Her old white hair drooping disheveld round her shoulders;
Owen Aherne And His Dancers
© William Butler Yeats
A strange thing surely that my Heart, when love had come unsought
Upon the Norman upland or in that poplar shade,
Should find no burden but itself and yet should be worn out.
It could not bear that burden and therefore it went mad.
On Being Asked For A War Poem
© William Butler Yeats
I think it better that in times like these
A poet's mouth be silent, for in truth
We have no gift to set a statesman right;
He has had enough of medding who can please
A young girl in the indolence of her youth,
Or an old man upon a winter's night.
On A Picture Of A Black Centaur By Edmund Dulac
© William Butler Yeats
Your hooves have stamped at the black margin of the wood,
Even where horrible green parrots call and swing.
My works are all stamped down into the sultry mud.
I knew that horse-play, knew it for a murderous thing.
On Woman
© William Butler Yeats
May God be praised for woman
That gives up all her mind,
A man may find in no man
A friendship of her kind
Oil And Blood
© William Butler Yeats
In tombs of gold and lapis lazuli
Bodies of holy men and women exude
Miraculous oil, odour of violet.
O Do Not Love Too Long
© William Butler Yeats
Sweetheart, do not love too long:
I loved long and long,
And grew to be out of fashion
Like an old song.
Ornithology For Beginners
© Dorothy Parker
The bird that feeds from off my palm
Is sleek, affectionate, and calm,
But double, to me, is worth the thrush
A-flickering in the elder-bush.
One Perfect Rose
© Dorothy Parker
A single flow'r he sent me, since we met.
All tenderly his messenger he chose;
Deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still wet -
One perfect rose.
On Cheating The Fiddler
© Dorothy Parker
"Then we will have tonight!" we said.
"Tomorrow- may we not be dead?"
The morrow touched our eyes, and found
Us walking firm above the ground,
Our pulses quick, our blood alight.
Tomorrow's gone- we'll have tonight!
On Being A Woman
© Dorothy Parker
Why is it, when I am in Rome,
I'd give an eye to be at home,
But when on native earth I be,
My soul is sick for Italy?
Of a Woman, Dead Young
© Dorothy Parker
If she had been beautiful, even,
Or wiser than women about her,
Or had moved with a certain defiance;
If she had had sons at her sides,
Observation
© Dorothy Parker
If I don't drive around the park,
I'm pretty sure to make my mark.
If I'm in bed each night by ten,
I may get back my looks again,
Oh, Gray And Tender Is The Rain
© Lizette Woodworth Reese
Oh, gray and tender is the rain,
That drips, drips on the pane!
A hundred things come in the door,
The scent of herbs, the thought of yore.
On The Borders
© Les Murray
We're driving across tableland
somewhere in the world;
it is almost bare of trees.
On Home Beaches
© Les Murray
Back, in my fifties, fatter that I was then,
I step on the sand, belch down slight horror to walk
a wincing pit edge, waiting for the pistol shot
laughter. Long greening waves cash themselves, foam change
On Winter's Margin
© Mary Oliver
On winters margin, see the small birds now
With half-forged memories come flocking home
To gardens famous for their charity.
The green globes broken; vines like tangled veins
Hang at the entrance to the silent wood.
