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Poetry Assignments
Professor Hood’s 7th Grade English Class
2014 – 2015
Name:
_________________________________
Period:
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Assignment Description
Welcome to 7th grade English with Prof. Hood. In this class, you
will:
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memorize 2 poems each term and
copy into this booklet one ―great poem‖ of your own
finding each term.
Copy into this booklet one ―great poem‖ of your own
writing each term.
You may memorize 1 extra poem each term for extra
credit
o The extra credit poem must be from the list
provided in this packet.
o All extra credit poems must be recited by 1 week
prior to the end of term date. One poem will be
recited 1 week before midterm and the other will
be recited 1 week before the term ends.
Your Space
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Table of Contents
This poem……will be recited in the week of:
Term 1
p. 1: The Tyger……………………......22 Sep
p. 2: Stars…………………………...….20 Oct
Term 2
p. 3: Nothing Gold Can Stay…….....…1 Dec
p. 4: I Died for Beauty………..…..……5 Jan
Term 3
p. 5: I Hear America Singing…..…….17 Feb
p. 6: I, Too…………………….……… 16 Mar
Term 4
p. 7: Crossing the Bar………………..20 Apr
p. 8: Do Not Go Gentle………..……18 May
Extra Credit Poems:
p. 9: A Red, Red Rose
p. 10: ―Hope‖ Is the Thing With Feathers (314)
p. 11: I’m Nobody! Who Are You? (260)
p. 12: In Flander’s Fields
p. 13: How Do I Love Thee
p. 14: Jabberwocky
p. 15+ Your Space to Copy Great Poems
P. 1: The Tyger (Term 1: 22 Sep)
Your Space
By William Blake
Published in 1794
Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp,
Dare its deadly terrors clasp!
When the stars threw down their spears
And water'd heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
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Your Space
P. 2: Stars (Term 1: 20 Oct)
By Sara Teasdale
b. 1884; d. 1933
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Alone in the night
On a dark hill
With pines around me
Spicy and still,
And a heaven full of stars
Over my head,
White and topaz
And misty red;
Myriads with beating
Hearts of fire
That aeons
Cannot vex or tire;
Up the dome of heaven
Like a great hill,
I watch them marching
Stately and still,
And I know that I
Am honored to be
Witness
Of so much majesty
P. 3: Nothing Gold Can Stay (Term 2: 1 Dec)
Your Space
By Robert Frost
b. 1874; d. 1963
Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
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Your Space
P. 4: I Died for Beauty (Term 2: 5 Jan)
By Emily Dickinson
b. 1830; d. 1886
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I died for beauty, but was scarce
Adjusted in the tomb,
When one who died for truth was lain
In an adjoining room.
He questioned softly why I failed?
"For beauty," I replied.
"And I for truth - the two are one;
We brethren are," he said.
And so, as kinsmen met a-night,
We talked between the rooms,
Until the moss had reached our lips,
And covered up our names.
P. 5: I Hear America Singing (Term 3: 17 Feb)
Your Space
By Walt Whitman
1819 - 1892
I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,
Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe
and strong,
The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves
off work,
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the
deckhand singing on the steamboat deck,
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter
singing as he stands,
The wood-cutter’s song, the ploughboy’s on his way in the
morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown,
The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at
work, or of the girl sewing or washing,
Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,
The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young
fellows, robust, friendly,
Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.
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P. 13: How Do I Love Thee? (Sonnet 43)
By Elizabeth Barrett Browning
1806 – 1861
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
P. 6: I, Too (Term 3: 16 Mar)
By Langston Hughes
b. 1902; d. 1967
I, too, sing America.
I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.
Tomorrow,
I’ll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody’ll dare
Say to me,
―Eat in the kitchen,"
Then.
Besides,
They’ll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed—
I, too, am America.
P. 7: Crossing the Bar (Term 4: 20 Apr)
By Alfred, Lord Tennyson
1809 – 1892
Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;
For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crost the bar.
P. 12: In Flanders Fields
By John McCrae
1872 – 1918
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place, and in the sky,
The larks, still bravely singing, fly,
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the dead; short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe!
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high!
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
P. 11: I’m Nobody! Who Are You? (260)
By Emily Dickinson
1830 – 1886
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!
P. 8: Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
(Term 4: 18 May)
By Dylan Thomas
1914 – 1953
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
P. 9: A Red, Red Rose
By Robert Burns
1759 – 1796
P. 10: “Hope” Is the Thing With Feathers
By Emily Dickinson
1830 – 1886
O my Luve is like a red, red rose
That’s newly sprung in June;
O my Luve is like the melody
That’s sweetly played in tune.
―Hope‖ is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul And sings the tune without the words And never stops - at all -
So fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry.
And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard And sore must be the storm That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -
Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;
I will love thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.
I’ve heard it in the chillest land And on the strangest Sea Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.
And fare thee weel, my only luve!
And fare thee weel awhile!
And I will come again, my luve,
Though it were ten thousand mile.