Figurative Language Practice
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
