The Great Water GiantThe Great Water GiantHas finished his bath.He pulls the huge plugOut of the clouds.He roars his thunderous laughAnd a wet slippery waterfallSpills out of a squelchy sky.‘Look out below’ he seems to shout as the waterSplooshes, splashes, plishes, ploshes, gushes,siushes,And soaks deep into the thirsty earth. by Ian SouterJack FrostLook out! Look out!Jack Frost is about!|He’s after our fingers and toes;And all through the night,The gay little spriteIs working where nobody knows. He’ll climb each tree,So nimble is he,His silvery powder he’ll shake.To windows he’ll creepAnd while we’re asleepSuch wonderful pictures he’ll make. Across the grassHe’ll merrily pass,And change all its greenness to white. Then home he will goAnd laugh ho, ho ho!What fun I have had in the night.by C.E. Pike DaffodowndillyShe 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 sunlightAnd shook her yellow head, And whispered to her neighbour: "Winter is dead."by A.A. MilneTractorThe tractor restsIn the shedDead or asleep,But with highHind wheelsHeld so stillWe knowIt is only waiting,Ready to leap –Like a heavyBrownGrasshopper.by Valerie WorthFogThe fog comeson little cat feet.It sits lookingover harbour and cityon silent haunchesand then moves on.by Carl Sandburg (1878-1967)The WindmillBehold! a giant am I!Aloft here in my tower,With my granite jaws I devourThe maize, and the wheat, and the rye, And grind them into flour.I look down over the farms;In the fields of grain I seeThe 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 flailsFar off, from the threshing-floorsIn 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 blowI meet it face to face,As a brave man meets his foe.And while we wrestle and strive,My master, the miller, standsAnd 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 beginTheir low, melodious din;I cross my arms on my breast,And all is peace within.by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Snow And SnowSnow is sometimes a she, a soft one.Her kiss on your cheek, her finger on your sleeveIn early December, on a warm evening,And you turn to meet her, saying "It’s snowing!"But i t is not. And nobody’s there.Empty and calm is the air.Sometimes the snow is a he, a sly one.Weakly he signs the dry stone with a damp spot. Waifish he floats and touches the pond and is not.Treacherous-beggarly he falters, and taps at the window.A little longer he clings to the grass-blade tip Getting his grip.Then how she leans, how furry foxwrap she nestlesThe sky with her warm, and the earth with her softness.How her lit crowding fairylands sink through the space-silenceTo build her palace, till it twinkles in starlight —Too frail for a footOr a crumb of soot.Then how his muffled armies move in all night And we wake and every road is blockaded Every hill taken and every farm occupiedAnd the white glare of his tents is on the ceiling. And all that dull blue day and on into the gloamingWe have to watch more coming.Then everything in the rubbish-heaped worldIs a bridesmaid at her miracle.Dunghills and crumbly dark old barns are bowed in the chapel of her sparkle.The gruesome boggy cellars of the woodAre a wedding of laceNow taking place.by Ted HughesCity JungleRain splinters town.Lizard cars cruise by; their radiators grin.Thin headlights stare –shop doorways keeptheir mouths shut.At the roadside hunched houses cough.Newspapers shuffle by, hands in their pockets. The gutter gargles.A motorbike snarls;Dustbins flinch.Streetlights baretheir yellow teeth.The motorway’scat-black tonguelashes acrossthe glistening back of the tarmac night.by Pie CorbettCity JungleRain splinters town.Lizard cars cruise by; their radiators grin.Thin headlights stare –shop doorways keeptheir mouths shut.At the roadside hunched houses cough.Newspapers shuffle by, hands in their pockets. The gutter gargles.A motorbike snarls;Dustbins flinch.Streetlights baretheir yellow teeth.The motorway’scat-black tonguelashes acrossthe glistening back of the tarmac night.by Pie Corbett。