The Poem of the Air

Snow-Flakes
By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)

Out of the bosom of the Air
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.

Even as our cloudy fancies take
Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
In the white countenance confession
The troubled sky reveals
The grief it feels.

This is the poem of the air,
Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair,
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
Now whispered and revealed
To wood and field.

Even though I don't think of snow as sad at all, I enjoy this poem. Longfellow creates a beautiful image!

On a Footing With Kings

Epitaph of John Jack
By Daniel Bliss (1740-1806)

God wills us free; man wills us slaves.
I will as God wills; God's will be done.

Here lies the body of
JOHN JACK
A native of Africa who died
March 1773, aged about 60 years.

Tho' born in a land of slavery,
He was born free.

Tho' he lived in a land of liberty,
He lived as a slave.

Till by his honest, tho' stolen, labors,
He acquired the source of slavery,
Which gave him his freedom;

Tho' not long before
Death, the grand tyrant,
Gave him his final emancipation,
And set him on a footing with kings.

Tho' a slave to vice,
He practised those virtues
Without which kings are but slaves.

The Colors of Freedom

Kristine O'Connell George has a great web site with information about her books, poems you can listen to, teacher tips and ideas, and more. Her page about the Amazing Middle School Poetry Quest has this wonderful poem and many others.

Runaway
by Meghan, 5th grade

Orange is the color of the drinking gourd signal,
Grey the pepper that I sprinkle.

Green is the woods that hide me,
Black is the time of day I flee.

Silver is the color of the North Star I follow,
Yellow is the flame in the cabin hollow.

To read the rest, go here.

The Journey of a Leaf

The Journey of a Leaf
By Ariana, age 12

A golden ship emerges,
from its safe, green home.

Its deck is quiet, vacant
while the wind mans the sails.

The rocking of the ship is slow,
drifting down,
down,
down.

Then the ship comes to a stop,
its long journey is over.

Oh, what beastesses!

Three Ghostesses
by Author Unknown

Three Little Ghostesses,
Sitting on postesses,
Eating buttered toastesses,
Greasing their fistesses,
Up to their wristesses,
Oh, what beastesses,
To make such feastesses.