Poems begining by O
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On the Death of Dr. Robert Levet
© Henry James Pye
Condemned to Hope’s delusive mine,
As on we toil from day to day,
By sudden blasts, or slow decline,
Our social comforts drop away.
Of the Last Verses in the Book
© Edmund Waller
When we for age could neither read nor write,
The subject made us able to indite.
The soul, with nobler resolutions deckt,
The body stooping, does herself erect:
No mortal parts are requisite to raise
Her, that unbodied can her Maker praise.
Of The Nature Of Things: Book I - Part 03 - The Void
© Lucretius
But yet creation's neither crammed nor blocked
About by body: there's in things a void-
On The South Downs
© Francis William Bourdillon
Light falls the rain
On link and laine,
After the burning day;
And the bright scene,
Blue, gold, and green,
Is blotted out in gray.
O Mistress Mine Where are you Roaming?
© William Shakespeare
O Mistress mine where are you roaming?
O stay and hear, your true love's coming,
That can sing both high and low.
Trip no further pretty sweeting.
Journeys end in lovers' meeting,
Every wise man's son doth know.
On a Dead Child
© John Hall Wheelock
Perfect little body, without fault or stain on thee,
With promise of strength and manhood full and fair!
Though cold and stark and bare,
The bloom and the charm of life doth awhile remain on thee.
O' Lyric Love
© Robert Browning
O' Lyric Love, half angel and half bird,
And all a wonder and a wild desire,-
Olney Hymn 46: Retirement
© William Cowper
Far from the world, O Lord, I flee,
From strife and tumult far;
From scenes where Satan wages still
His most successful war.
On What Planet
© Kenneth Rexroth
Uniformly over the whole countryside
The warm air flows imperceptibly seaward;
Of Uprightness and Sincerity
© John Bunyan
Wouldst thou be very upright and sincere?
Wouldst thou be that within thou dost appear,
On The Way To Church
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
There is one I know. I see her sometimes pass
In the morning streets upon her way to Mass,
A calm sweet woman with unearthly eyes.
Men turn to look at her, but ever stop,
Reading in those blue depths the death of hope
And a wise chastisement for thoughts unwise.
On The Death Of Sir Henry Wootton
© Abraham Cowley
What shall we say, since silent now is he
Who when he spoke, all things would silent be?
Oh, How the Hand the Lover Ought to Prize
© Aphra Behn
Oh, how the hand the lover ought to prize
Bove any one peculiar grace!
While he is dying for the eyes
And doting on the lovely face,
The unconsidring little knows
How much he to this beauty owes.
October, 1915
© Dora Sigerson Shorter
When the white rose and the red spill their leaves upon the way,
Make a scented path to tread through the long, sun-haunted day;
One Year Old
© Robert Laurence Binyon
Is it we that are wise, is it we,
Who have bought with a price of grief
A wisdom seldom free
From scorn or disbelief,
Omens
© Yusef Komunyakaa
Her eyelids were painted blue.
When she closed her eyes the sea
rolled in like ten thousand fiery chariots,
Over the Roofs
© Sara Teasdale
Oh chimes set high on the sunny tower
Ring on, ring on unendingly,
Make all the hours a single hour,
For when the dusk begins to flower,
The man I love will come to me! ...
