Poetry By Ben
By Alfred, Lord Tennyson
He clasps the crag with crooked hand;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring’ d with the azure world, he stand.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he fall.
“Hope” is the thing with feathers
By: Emily Dickinson
“Hope” is the thing with feathers---
That perches in the soul---
And sighs the tune without the words---
And never stop---at all---
And sweetest---in the Gale---is heard
And sore must be the storm---
That could abash the little Bird
That keep so many warm---
I’ve heard it in the chillest land---
And on the strangest Sea---
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb---of Me.
By: Langston Hughes
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore----
And the run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over----
Like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
By: Christina Rossetti
Does the road wind uphill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Will the day’s journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.
But is there for the night a resting place?
A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot mess that inn.
Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in night?
They will not keep you standing at the door.
Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labor you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.
By:Walter Dean Myers
I like hot days, hot days
Sweat is what you got days
Bugs buzzing form cousin to cousin
Running and ripping
Catch the one you love days
Old men sleeping
Lazy days, daisies lay
Beaming and dreaming
Of hot days, hot days
Sweat is what you got day