Figurative Language Practice

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With processions long and winding with the countless torches lit

H

My brain is fire--my heart is lead! Her soul is flint, and what am I?

M

How sweet the sobbing violin!

P

An endless quiet valley spreads out Past the blue hills into the evening sky;

H

In peaceful noises of the farm, and watch The pastoral fields burned by the setting sun...

H

Now that I am without you, all is desolate; All that was once so beautiful is dead.

H

Oh, never, if I live to a million, shall I feel such a grievous pain.

H

Swift hath sped the hour of our youth.

H

The moon came with a blinding glow.

H

All books are either dreams, or swords, You can cut, or you can drug, with words.

M

My heart is but a haughty snail!

M

My words are little jars for you to take and put upon a shelf. Their shapes are quaint and beautiful And they have many pleasant colors and lusters

M

The lake waves were flakes of red gold.

M

Your beauty was a web of frail delight.

M

A watery light Touched bleak the granite bridge, and white Without the slightest tinge of gold, The city shivered in the cold.

P

All round the house is the jet-black night; It stares through the window-pane; It crawls in the corners, hiding from the light,

P

And then my heart with pleasure fills and dances with the daffodils.

P

April now walks the fields again, Trailing her tearful leaves And holding all her frightened buds against her heart

P

Sifted through the grass were daisies, open-mouthed, wondering, they gazed at the sun.

P

The little Road says, Go, The little House says, Stay:

P

When the wind is low, and the sea is soft, And the far heat-lightning plays

P

But words are things, and a small drop of ink, falling, like dew, upon a thought produces

S

Carven cathedrals, on a sky Of faintest color, where the gothic spires lie and sway like masts, against a shifting breeze...

S

He would write, but his hours are as busy as bees in the sun

S

His pigtail is long and thick, Like a pump-handle stuck on the end of a stick.

S

I could grow very still Like an old stone on a hill

S

The stones of the field are sharp as steel.

S

Your kiss lies on my face Like the first snow Upon a summer place.

S

Your lips, light as the wings of the dragon-flies...

S


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