Best Famous Ov Poems

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

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• All Famous Ov 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 Young that Died in Beauty If souls should only sheen so bright In heaven as in e’thly light, An’ nothen better wer the cease, How comely still, in sheape an’ feace, Would many reach thik happy pleace, - The hopevul souls that in their prime Ha’ seem’d a-took avore their time, - The young that died in beauty. But when woone’s lim’s ha’ lost their strangth A-tweilen drough a lifetime’s langth, An’ over cheaks a-growen wold The slowly-weasten years ha’ roll’d The deep’nen wrinkle’s hollow vwold; When life is ripe, then death do call Vor less ov thought, than when do vall On young vo’ks in their beauty. But pinen souls, wi’ heads a-hung In heavy sorrow vor the young, The sister ov the brother dead, The father wi’ a child a-vled, The husband when his bride ha’ laid Her head at rest, noo mwore to turn, Have all a-vound the time to murn Vor youth that died in beauty. An’ yeet the church, where prayer do rise Vrom thoughtvul souls, wi’ downcast eyes, An’ village greens, a-beat half beare By dancers that do meet, an’ wear Such merry looks at feast an’ feair, Do gather under leatest skies, Their bloomen cheaks an’ sparklen eyes, Though young ha’ died in beauty. But still the dead shall mwore than keep The beauty ov their early sleep; Where comely looks shall never wear Uncomely, under tweil an' ceare. The feair at death be always feair, Still feair to livers’ thought an’ love, An’ feairer still to God above, Than when they died in beauty.

Written by William Barnes | Tokens Green mwold on zummer bars do show That they've a-dripped in winter wet; The hoof-worn ring o' groun' below The tree do tell o' storms or het; The trees in rank along a ledge Do show where woonce did bloom a hedge; An' where the vurrow-marks do stripe The down the wheat woonce rustled ripe. Each mark ov things a-gone vrom view— To eyezight's woone, to soulzight two. The grass agean the mwoldren door 'S a token sad o' vo'k a-gone, An' where the house, bwoth wall an' vloor, 'S a-lost, the well mid linger on. What tokens, then, could Meary gi'e That she a-lived, an' lived vor me, But things a-done vor thought an' view? Good things that nwone agean can do, An' every work her love ha' wrought, To eyezight's woone, but two to thought.

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 William Barnes | The Young that Died in Beauty If souls should only sheen so bright In heaven as in e’thly light, An’ nothen better wer the cease, How comely still, in sheape an’ feace, Would many reach thik happy pleace, - The hopevul souls that in their prime Ha’ seem’d a-took avore their time, - The young that died in beauty. But when woone’s lim’s ha’ lost their strangth A-tweilen drough a lifetime’s langth, An’ over cheaks a-growen wold The slowly-weasten years ha’ roll’d The deep’nen wrinkle’s hollow vwold; When life is ripe, then death do call Vor less ov thought, than when do vall On young vo’ks in their beauty. But pinen souls, wi’ heads a-hung In heavy sorrow vor the young, The sister ov the brother dead, The father wi’ a child a-vled, The husband when his bride ha’ laid Her head at rest, noo mwore to turn, Have all a-vound the time to murn Vor youth that died in beauty. An’ yeet the church, where prayer do rise Vrom thoughtvul souls, wi’ downcast eyes, An’ village greens, a-beat half beare By dancers that do meet, an’ wear Such merry looks at feast an’ feair, Do gather under leatest skies, Their bloomen cheaks an’ sparklen eyes, Though young ha’ died in beauty. But still the dead shall mwore than keep The beauty ov their early sleep; Where comely looks shall never wear Uncomely, under tweil an' ceare. The feair at death be always feair, Still feair to livers’ thought an’ love, An’ feairer still to God above, Than when they died in beauty.

Written by Ingeborg Bachmann | Zummer An Winter When I led by zummer streams The pride o' Lea, as naighbours thought her, While the zun, wi' evenen beams, Did cast our sheades athirt the water; Winds a-blowen, Streams a-flowen, Skies a-glowen, Tokens ov my jay zoo fleeten, Heightened it, that happy meeten. Then, when maid an' man took pleaces, Gay in winter's Chris'mas dances, Showen in their merry feaces Kindly smiles an' glisnen glances; Stars a-winken, Day a-shrinken, Sheades a-zinken, Brought anew the happy meeten, That did meake the night too fleeten.

Written by William Barnes | Woak Hill When sycamore leaves wer a-spreaden Green-ruddy in hedges, Bezide the red doust o' the ridges, A-dried at Woak Hill; I packed up my goods, all a-sheenen Wi' long years o' handlen, On dousty red wheels ov a waggon, To ride at Woak Hill. The brown thatchen ruf o' the dwellen I then wer a-leaven, Had sheltered the sleek head o' Meary, My bride at Woak Hill. But now vor zome years, her light voot-vall 'S a-lost vrom the vlooren. To soon vor my jay an' my childern She died at Woak Hill. But still I do think that, in soul, She do hover about us; To ho vor her motherless childern, Her pride at Woak Hill. Zoo—lest she should tell me hereafter I stole off 'ithout her, An' left her, uncalled at house-ridden, To bide at Woak Hill— I called her so fondly, wi' lippens All soundless to others, An' took her wi' air-reachen hand To my zide at Woak Hill. On the road I did look round, a-talken To light at my shoulder, An' then led her in at the doorway, Miles wide vrom Woak Hill. An' that's why vo'k thought, vor a season, My mind wer a-wandren Wi' sorrow, when I wer so sorely A-tried at Woak Hill. But no; that my Meary mid never Behold herzelf slighted, I wanted to think that I guided My guide vrom Woak Hill.