O friends, our chief state-oracle is mute. |
O great and sane and simple race of brutes/ That own no lust because they have no law! |
O hard, when love and duty clash! |
O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going! O sweet and far from cliff and scar, The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! |
O mighty-mouthed inventor of harmonies,/ O skilled to sing of Time or Eternity,/ God-gifted organ voice of England,/ Milton, a name to resound for ages. |
O Sorrow, wilt thou live with me/ No casual mistress, but a wife. |
O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South,/ Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves,/ And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee. |
O you chorus of indolent reviewers. |
Oh for someone with a heart, head and hand. Whatever they call them, what do I care, aristocrat, democrat, autocrat, just be it one that can rule and dare not lie. |
Oh that it were possible, After long grief and pain, To find the arms of my true love, Around me once again |
Oh yet we trust that somehow good will be the final goal of ill! |
Old age hath yet his honor and his toil. Death closes all; but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. |
Old men must die, or the word would grow moldy, would only breed the past again |
On one side lay the Ocean, and on one/ Lay a great water, and the moon was full. |
On the bald street breaks the blank day. |