Personification in Poetry The by Stanley Cook Meyer

Personification in Poetry

The …………… by Stanley Cook (Meyer) The……… is a wolf That sniffs at doors And rattles windows With his paws. Tired next morning The ………’s still there Snatching pieces of paper And ruffling your hair. Hidden in the night, He rushes round The locked up house Making angry sounds. He quietens down and in the end You hardly notice him go Whispering down the road To find another place to blow. He leaps on the roof And tries to drive Away the house And everything inside.

…………………, Artist by Denise Rodgers (Moses) There's a pattern on my window When the night's been very cold. The artist who created it Is …………………, I am told. He only deals in abstracts And in geometric lines. He's not much for still lifes Or Renaissance designs. He doesn't paint in colour; His designs are all in white. The sunlight shows their beauty In the early morning light. I never hear him working; Not a scratch, a sigh, or cough. It's not too bad for ……… ……, though; He gets the summer off.

The Great Water Giant Has finished his bath. He pulls the huge plug Out of the clouds. He roars his thunderous laugh And a wet slippery waterfall Spills out of a squelchy sky. ‘Look out below’ he seems to shout as the water Splooshes, splashes, plishes, ploshes, gushes, siushes, And soaks deep into the thirsty earth. by Ian Souter

… Look out! … is about! He’s after our fingers and toes; And all through the night, The gay little sprite Is working where nobody knows. He’ll climb each tree, So nimble is he, His silvery powder he’ll shake. To windows he’ll creep And while we’re asleep Such wonderful pictures he’ll make. Across the grass He’ll merrily pass, And change all its greenness to white. Then home he will go And laugh ho, ho ho! What fun I have had in the night. By C. E. Pike

Daffodowndilly She wore her yellow sunbonnet, She wore her greenest gown; She turned to the south wind And curtsied up and down. She turned to the sunlight And shook her yellow head, And whispered to her neighbour: "Winter is dead. " by A. A. Milne

The … Behold! a giant am I! Aloft here in my tower, With my granite jaws I devour The maize, and the wheat, and the rye, And grind them into flour. I look down over the farms; In the fields of grain I see The harvest that is to be, And I fling to the air my arms, For I know it is all for me. I hear the sound of flails Far off, from the threshing-floors In barns, with their open doors, And the wind, the wind in my sails, Louder and louder roars. I stand here in my place, With my foot on the rock below, And whichever way it may blow I meet it face to face, As a brave man meets his foe. And while we wrestle and strive, My master, the miller, stands And feeds me with his hands; For he knows who makes him thrive, Who makes him lord of lands. On Sundays I take my rest; Church-going bells begin Their low, melodious din; I cross my arms on my breast, And all is peace within. by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

… The … rests In the shed Dead or asleep, But with high Hind wheels Held so still We know It is only waiting, Ready to leap – Like a heavy Brown Grasshopper. by Valerie Worth

… The … comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over harbour and city on silent haunches and then moves on. by: Carl Sandburg (1878 -1967)