1. Personification in Poetry

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

3. ……………………………………, 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.

4. 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

5. …
Look out! 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

6. Daffodowndilly
She wore her yellow sun- bonnet, 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

7. 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

8. …
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

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