Figurative Language 6

Life is too much like a pathless wood.

The needle slept on the broidered vine.

My heart it was a floating bird
That through the world did wander free,
But he hath locked it in a cage,
And lost the silver key.

Beauty calls and gives no warning.

A drum pounds out the hymn,
That blends with the endless rumble of carts,

They only know our love was brief,
And passing like an autumn leaf.

My Soul goes clad in gorgeous things,
Scarlet and gold and blue;

Getting attacked by a shark can make you a little uncomfortable.

The children went like moths into the grass with folded wings.

There the unregulated sun
Slopes down to rest when day is done,

A poem is merely a flowering twig of thought.

The stars in the sky,
Exist but to light your passing feet.

The white moth is a ghost ship
Drifting through.

Day was dying; the poplars fled.

Struggles and strivings wear us out like snowmen at the thaw.

I found it to be a trifle rude that he would fire his rifle at us so.

I woke with the jostling and shouting of merry flowers.

Oh, praise me not the silent folk;
To me they only seem
Like leafless, bird-abandoned oak
And muffled, frozen stream.

My heart is but a mouse.

The high and lonely hills
Endure the darkening year.