• Poetry Reading Station:

     Student Materials: Poetry definitions sheet and dictionary.

    Instructions: Find a poem that interests you from the ones provided. Read the poem twice at least – the second time aloud to the group at your station. Each time try to picture the scenes, images, objects, and characters in your mind’s eye. Pay attention to the language the poet uses. Then complete all the questions on your own pape

    ~ Only one poem can have no challenging vocabulary words in it.

     Poetry Review Form

    1) Author’s name and “Poem Title.” 

    2) List one unknown vocabulary word and its definition.

    3) What is the poem about? Write at least three complete sentences explaining what the poem is about. Be sure to mention important points like setting, mood, imagery, and persona (the voice of the poem).

    4) What tools is the author using? List two literary devices used in the poem and GIVE THE EXAMPLE from the poem – see your definitions sheet for examples if necessary.

    5) What musical genre (type of music) would this poem fit best and why?

    6) What artist or group would you sell this song to?

    3rd & 4th Period Product Rubric by Grade:

                 D – At least four Forms completed thoroughly (every question answered).

              C – At least five Forms.

              B – At least six Forms.

              A – At least eight Forms.

    5th & 6th PeriodProduct Rubric by Grade:

                 D – At least three Forms completed thoroughly (every question answered).

              C – At least four AR Forms.

              B – At least five Forms.

              A – At least six Forms.


    “The World Is Too Much with Us”

    William Wordsworth:



    The world is too much with us; late and soon,
    Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
    Little we see in Nature that is ours;
    We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
    This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
    The winds that will be howling at all hours,
    And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,
    For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
    It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
    A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
    So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
    Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
    Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
    Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.




    Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)


    I met a Traveler from an antique land,
    Who said, "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
    Stand in the desart. Near them, on the sand,
    Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
    And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
    Tell that its sculptor well those passions read,
    Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
    The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:
    And on the pedestal these words appear:
    "My name is OZYMANDIAS, King of Kings."
    Look on my works ye Mighty, and despair!
    No thing beside remains. Round the decay
    Of that Colossal Wreck, boundless and bare,
    The lone and level sands stretch far away.



    “She Walks in Beauty”

    by Lord Byron (George Gordon)

    Lord Byron (George Gordon)

    She walks in beauty, like the night

       Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

    And all that’s best of dark and bright

       Meet in her aspect and her eyes;

    Thus mellowed to that tender light

       Which heaven to gaudy day denies.


    One shade the more, one ray the less,

       Had half impaired the nameless grace

    Which waves in every raven tress,

       Or softly lightens o’er her face;

    Where thoughts serenely sweet express,

       How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.


    And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,

       So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

    The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

       But tell of days in goodness spent,

    A mind at peace with all below,

       A heart whose love is innocent!



    “Eighth Air Force”


    by Randall Jarrell

    Randall Jarrell

    If, in an odd angle of the hutment,

    A puppy laps the water from a can

    Of flowers, and the drunk sergeant shaving   

    Whistles O Paradiso!—shall I say that man   

    Is not as men have said: a wolf to man?


    The other murderers troop in yawning;   

    Three of them play Pitch, one sleeps, and one   

    Lies counting missions, lies there sweating   

    Till even his heart beats: One; One; One.

    O murderers! ... Still, this is how it’s done:


    This is a war.... But since these play, before they die,   

    Like puppies with their puppy; since, a man,

    I did as these have done, but did not die—

    I will content the people as I can

    And give up these to them: Behold the man!


    I have suffered, in a dream, because of him,   

    Many things; for this last saviour, man,

    I have lied as I lie now. But what is lying?

    Men wash their hands, in blood, as best they can:   

    I find no fault in this just man


    “The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner”
    by Randall Jarrell

    From my mother's sleep I fell into the State,
    And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
    Six miles from earth, loosed from the dream of life,
    I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
    When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.

    “SONNET 29”

    William Shakespeare


    When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
    I all alone beweep my outcast state
    And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries
    And look upon myself and curse my fate,
    Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
    Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
    Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
    With what I most enjoy contented least;
    Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
    Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
    Like to the lark at break of day arising
    From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
       For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
       That then I scorn to change my state with kings.


    “SONNET 91”

    William Shakespeare


    Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,
    Some in their wealth, some in their bodies' force,
    Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill,
    Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse;
    And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure,
    Wherein it finds a joy above the rest:
    But these particulars are not my measure;
    All these I better in one general best.
    Thy love is better than high birth to me,
    Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' cost,
    Of more delight than hawks or horses be;
    And having thee, of all men's pride I boast:
       Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take
       All this away and me most wretched make.


    “Because I could not stop for Death” (712)
    by Emily Dickinson

    Because I could not stop for Death – 

    He kindly stopped for me – 

    The Carriage held but just Ourselves – 

    And Immortality.


    We slowly drove – He knew no haste

    And I had put away

    My labor and my leisure too,

    For His Civility – 


    We passed the School, where Children strove

    At Recess – in the Ring – 

    We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain – 

    We passed the Setting Sun – 


    Or rather – He passed us – 

    The Dews drew quivering and chill – 

    For only Gossamer, my Gown – 

    My Tippet – only Tulle – 


    We paused before a House that seemed

    A Swelling of the Ground – 

    The Roof was scarcely visible – 

    The Cornice – in the Ground – 


    Since then – 'tis Centuries – and yet

    Feels shorter than the Day

    I first surmised the Horses' Heads

    Were toward Eternity –


    “Ode To Enchanted Light”

    Pablo Neruda


    Under the trees light

    has dropped from the top of the sky,


    like a green

    latticework of branches,


    on every leaf,

    drifting down like clean

    white sand.


    A cicada sends

    its sawing song

    high into the empty air.


    The world is

    a glass overflowing

    with water.

    “The Road Not Taken”


    Robert Frost


    Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
    And sorry I could not travel both
    And be one traveler, long I stood
    And looked down one as far as I could
    To where it bent in the undergrowth.

    Then took the other, as just as fair,
    And having perhaps the better claim,
    Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
    Though as for that the passing there
    Had worn them really about the same.

    And both that morning equally lay
    In leaves no step had trodden black.
    Oh, I kept the first for another day!
    Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
    I doubted if I should ever come back.

    I shall be telling this with a sigh
    Somewhere ages and ages hence:
    Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
    I took the one less traveled by,
    And that has made all the difference.



    “Harlem Night Song”
    Langston Hughes


    Let us roam the night together


    I love you.


    The Harlem roof-tops
    Moon is shining.
    Night sky is blue.
    Stars are great drops
    Of golden dew.


    Down the street
    A band is playing.


    I love you.


    Let us roam the night together


    Langston Hughes


    Hold fast to dreams
    For if dreams die
    Life is a broken-winged bird
    That cannot fly.

    Hold fast to dreams
    For when dreams go
    Life is a barren field
    Frozen with snow.


    “Dream Deferred”

    Langston Hughes


    What happens to a dream deferred?
    Does it dry up
    Like a raisin in the sun?
    Or fester like a sore--
    And then 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?

    “The New Colossus”

    Emma Lazarus


    Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,

    With conquering limbs astride from land to land;

    Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand

    A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame

    Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name

    Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand

    Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command

    The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

    "Keep ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she

    With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,

    Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

    The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

    Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

    I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"


      “Grandma Ling” 
    Amy Ling 

    If you dig that hole deep enough, 
    you’ll reach China, they used to tell me, 
    a child in a back yard in Pennsylvania. 
    Not strong enough to dig that hole, 
    I waited twenty years, 
    then sailed back, half way around the world.


    In Taiwan I first met Grandma. 
    Before she came to view, I heard 
    her slippered feet softly measure 
    the tatami floor with even step; 
    the aqua paper-covered door slid open 
    and there I faced 
    my five foot height, sturdy legs and feet, 
    square forehead, high cheeks and wide-set eyes; 
    my image stood before me, 
    acted on by fifty years. 


    She smiled, stretched her arms 
    to take to heart the eldest daughter 
    of her youngest son a quarter century away. 
    She spoke a tongue I knew no word of, 
    and I was sad I could not understand, 
    but I could hug her.



    “The Choice”

    Dorothy Parker


    He'd have given me rolling lands,
    Houses of marble, and billowing farms,
    Pearls, to trickle between my hands,
    Smoldering rubies, to circle my arms.
    You- you'd only a lilting song,
    Only a melody, happy and high,
    You were sudden and swift and strong-
    Never a thought for another had I.

    He'd have given me laces rare,
    Dresses that glimmered with frosty sheen,
    Shining ribbons to wrap my hair,
    Horses to draw me, as fine as a queen.
    You- you'd only to whistle low,
    Gayly I followed wherever you led.
    I took you, and I let him go-
    Somebody ought to examine my head!



    by: W.B. Yeats


    OWN by the salley gardens my love and I did meet;

    She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet.

    She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree;

    But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree.


    In a field by the river my love and I did stand,

    And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand.

    She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs;

    But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.