Literary Devices

Yes, he was stone, stone dead. 

I sing the song of the billowing flags, the bugles that cry no more. 

I will sow down this field, scattering gems.

His face puckered, the tears leapt from his eyes.

But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep.

The black earth embraces my ankles and clings to my bent knees.

The boon of light we craved, awaited long, Has come, has come!

Sitting in class bored out of my mind, If I give up, I'll be left behind. 

Ah, but the broken bodies that drip like honey-comb! 

Ah! Sullen now, and dumb as the green turf that covers them.