Figurative Language 3

They have watered the street,
It shines in the glare of lamps,
Cold, white lamps,
And lies
Like a slow-moving river.

Life is a stream
On which we strew
Petal by petal the flower of our heart;

The daisy hugging the earth
in August, ha!

A treasurer of immortal days,
I roam the glorious world giving endless praise,

The river, curling softly by,
Whispers and dimples round its quiet gray stones.

Well, siccing your attack dogs on those Christmas carolers wasn't the most neighborly thing to do.

From their sweet feeding in the fruit;
The droning of the bees and flies
Rises gradual as a lute;

The earth is the cup of the sun,
That filleth at morning

An old willow with hollow branches
slowly swayed his few high tendrils
and sang.

Love is a breach in the walls, a broken gate.

Over the yawning chimney hangs the fog.

Through the blinds and the windows and bars;
High over head and I could see,
There were thousands of millions of billions of stars.

A trumpet-vine covered an arbour
With the red and gold of its blossoms.
Red and gold like the brass notes of trumpets.

Hopeless, there stand the purple jars
Of night to spill oblivion.

I suppose that getting into a fist fight with the principal may have been a little bit out of line.

The far remote
Moonbeams gloat.

So lightly I played with those dark memories,
Just as a child, beneath the summer skies,
Plays hour by hour with a strange shining stone.

And now May, too, is fled,
The flower-crowned month, the merry laughing May,
With rosy feet and fingers dewy wet.

Love is a young green willow
shimmering at the bare wood's edge.

The light of loveliness
lit her face.