Figurative Language 2

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

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.

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

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

Kidnapping the bride at her wedding proved to be a slight of breach of decorum.

A small drop of ink,
Fell like dew.

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

The procession was long and winding
With countless torches lit,

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

Carven cathedrals, on a sky
Of faintest colour,
Sway like masts, against a shifting breeze.

Jeb figured that wrestling the grizzly bear might be a tad bit risky, so he left the way he came.

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