Best Famous Loven Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Loven poems. This is a select list of the best famous Loven poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Loven poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of loven poems.

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• All Famous Loven Poems

Written by William Barnes | The Broken Heart News o' grief had overteaken Dark-eyed Fanny, now vorseaken; There she zot, wi' breast a-heaven, While vrom zide to zide, wi' grieven, Vell her head, wi' tears a-creepen Down her cheaks, in bitter weepen. There wer still the ribbon-bow She tied avore her hour ov woe, An' there wer still the hans that tied it Hangen white, Or wringen tight, In ceare that drowned all ceare bezide it. When a man, wi' heartless slighten, Mid become a maiden's blighten, He mid cearelessly vorseake her, But must answer to her Meaker; He mid slight, wi' selfish blindness, All her deeds o' loven-kindness, God wull waigh 'em wi' the slighten That mid be her love's requiten; He do look on each deceiver, He do know What weight o' woe Do break the heart ov ev'ry griever.

Written by Ingeborg Bachmann | The Broken Heart News o' grief had overteaken Dark-eyed Fanny, now vorseaken; There she zot, wi' breast a-heaven, While vrom zide to zide, wi' grieven, Vell her head, wi' tears a-creepen Down her cheaks, in bitter weepen. There wer still the ribbon-bow She tied avore her hour ov woe, An' there wer still the hans that tied it Hangen white, Or wringen tight, In ceare that drowned all ceare bezide it. When a man, wi' heartless slighten, Mid become a maiden's blighten, He mid cearelessly vorseake her, But must answer to her Meaker; He mid slight, wi' selfish blindness, All her deeds o' loven-kindness, God wull waigh 'em wi' the slighten That mid be her love's requiten; He do look on each deceiver, He do know What weight o' woe Do break the heart ov ev'ry griever.

Written by William Barnes | The Geate a-Vallen to In the zunsheen of our zummers Wi’ the hay time now a-come, How busy wer we out a-vield Wi’ vew a-left at hwome, When waggons rumbled out ov yard Red wheeled, wi’ body blue, And back behind ‘em loudly slamm’d The geate a’vallen to. Drough daysheen ov how many years The geate ha’ now a-swung Behind the veet o’ vull-grown men And vootsteps of the young. Drough years o’ days it swung to us Behind each little shoe, As we tripped lightly on avore The geate a-vallen to. In evenen time o’ starry night How mother zot at hwome, And kept her bleazen vier bright Till father should ha’ come, An' how she quicken'd up and smiled An' stirred her vier anew, To hear the trampen ho'ses’ steps An' geate a-vallen to. There’s moon-sheen now in nights o’ fall When leaves be brown vrom green, When, to the slammen o' the geate, Our Jenny’s ears be keen, When the wold dog do wag his tail, An' Jean could tell to who, As he do come in drough the geate, The geate a-vallen to. An' oft do come a saddened hour When there must goo away One well-beloved to our heart’s core, Vor long, perhaps vor aye: An' oh! it is a touchen thing The loven heart must rue, To hear behind his last farewell The geate a-vallen to. (William Barnes’s last dialect poem, dictated shortly before his death.)

Written by William Barnes | Vull a Man No, I'm a man, I'm vull a man, You beat my manhood, if you can. You'll be a man if you can teake All steates that household life do meake. The love-toss'd child, a-croodlen loud, The bwoy a-screamen wild in play, The tall grown youth a-steppen proud, The father staid, the house's stay. No ; I can boast if others can, I'm vull a man. A young-cheak'd mother's tears mid vall, When woone a-lost, not half man-tall, Vrom little hand, a-called vrom play, Do leave noo tool, but drop a tay, An' die avore he's father-free To sheape his life by his own plan; An' vull an angel he shall be, But here on e'th not vull a man, No; I could boast if others can, I'm vull a man. I woonce, a child, wer father-fed, An' I've a-vound my childern bread; My earm, a sister's trusty crook, Is now a faithvul wife's own hook; An' I've agone where vo'k did zend, An' gone upon my own free mind, An' of'en at my own wits' end. A-led o' God while I were blind. No; I could boast if others can, I'm vull a man. An' still, ov all my tweil ha' won, My loven maid an' merry son, Though each in turn's a jay an' ceare, 'Ve a-had, an' still shall have, their sheare An' then, if God should bless their lives, Why I mid zend vrom son to son My life, right on drough men an' wives, As long, good now, as time do run. No, I could boast if others can, I'm vull a man.

Written by Ingeborg Bachmann | The Geate a-Vallen to In the zunsheen of our zummers Wi’ the hay time now a-come, How busy wer we out a-vield Wi’ vew a-left at hwome, When waggons rumbled out ov yard Red wheeled, wi’ body blue, And back behind ‘em loudly slamm’d The geate a’vallen to. Drough daysheen ov how many years The geate ha’ now a-swung Behind the veet o’ vull-grown men And vootsteps of the young. Drough years o’ days it swung to us Behind each little shoe, As we tripped lightly on avore The geate a-vallen to. In evenen time o’ starry night How mother zot at hwome, And kept her bleazen vier bright Till father should ha’ come, An' how she quicken'd up and smiled An' stirred her vier anew, To hear the trampen ho'ses’ steps An' geate a-vallen to. There’s moon-sheen now in nights o’ fall When leaves be brown vrom green, When, to the slammen o' the geate, Our Jenny’s ears be keen, When the wold dog do wag his tail, An' Jean could tell to who, As he do come in drough the geate, The geate a-vallen to. An' oft do come a saddened hour When there must goo away One well-beloved to our heart’s core, Vor long, perhaps vor aye: An' oh! it is a touchen thing The loven heart must rue, To hear behind his last farewell The geate a-vallen to. (William Barnes’s last dialect poem, dictated shortly before his death.)

Written by Ingeborg Bachmann | Vull a Man No, I'm a man, I'm vull a man, You beat my manhood, if you can. You'll be a man if you can teake All steates that household life do meake. The love-toss'd child, a-croodlen loud, The bwoy a-screamen wild in play, The tall grown youth a-steppen proud, The father staid, the house's stay. No ; I can boast if others can, I'm vull a man. A young-cheak'd mother's tears mid vall, When woone a-lost, not half man-tall, Vrom little hand, a-called vrom play, Do leave noo tool, but drop a tay, An' die avore he's father-free To sheape his life by his own plan; An' vull an angel he shall be, But here on e'th not vull a man, No; I could boast if others can, I'm vull a man. I woonce, a child, wer father-fed, An' I've a-vound my childern bread; My earm, a sister's trusty crook, Is now a faithvul wife's own hook; An' I've agone where vo'k did zend, An' gone upon my own free mind, An' of'en at my own wits' end. A-led o' God while I were blind. No; I could boast if others can, I'm vull a man. An' still, ov all my tweil ha' won, My loven maid an' merry son, Though each in turn's a jay an' ceare, 'Ve a-had, an' still shall have, their sheare An' then, if God should bless their lives, Why I mid zend vrom son to son My life, right on drough men an' wives, As long, good now, as time do run. No, I could boast if others can, I'm vull a man.