Poems for Grade 7 from Holt McDougal

 

GRADE SEVEN POEMS FROM HOLT MCDOUGAL LITERATURE INTERACTIVE READER

Sea-Fever                        by            John Masefield

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,             
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

Message from the Caterpillar   

 by      Lillian Moore

Don't shake this
bough.
Don't try
to wake me
now.

In this cocoon
I've work to
do.
Inside this silk
I'm changing
things.

I'm worm-like now
but in this
dark
I'm growing
wings.

I'm Nobody! Who are You?           

  By  Emily Dickinson

I'm Nobody! Who are you?

Are you – Nobody – too?

Then there's a pair of us!

Don't tell! they'd advertise – you know!

How dreary – to be – Somebody!

How public – like a Frog –  

To tell one's name – the livelong June –  

To an admiring Bog!

Fog     by    Carl Sandburg

The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches         5 and then moves on.

Two Haiku     by    Basho

Winter solitude-
in a world of one color
the sound of the wind.

A field of cotton-
as if the moon
had flowered.

Mooses                                        

  by   Ted Hughes

The goofy Moose, the walking house frame,
Is lost
In the forest. He bumps, he blunders, he stands.
With massy bony thoughts sticking out near his ears –
Reaching out palm upwards, to catch whatever might be
falling from heaven –
He tries to think,
Leaning their huge weight
On the lectern of his front legs.
He can’t find the world!
Where did it go? What does a world look like?
The Moose
Crashes on, and crashes into a lake, and stares at the
mountain and cries:
‘Where do I belong? This is no place!’
He turns dragging half the lake out after him
And charges the crackling underbrush –
He meets another Moose
He stares, he thinks: ‘It’s only a mirror!’
‘Where is the world?’ he groans. ‘O my lost world!
And why am I so ugly?
And why am I so far away from my feet?’
He weeps.
Hopeless drops drip from his droopy lips.
The other Moose just stands there doing the same.
Two dopes of the deep woods.

The Village Blacksmith     

by

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

 

Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms	5
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,	10
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge	15
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;	20
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And watch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,	25
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.	30
It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes	35
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling, - rejoicing,- sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;	40
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life	45
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought!

  

     Is the Moon Tired?              

          by Christina Rossetti

Is the Moon tired? She looks so pale
Within her misty veil;
She scales the sky from east to west,
And takes no rest.

Before the coming of the night
The Moon shows papery white;
Before the dawning of the day,
She fades away.