Examples Of A Simile In A Poem Novels & Stories

Paige told him. "But I've made great progress, haven't I?" Simon asked, yet to wipe out the grin on his face "And how will I know how much progress you've made, if I don't know how bad your temper was as a boy?" Paige asked with a soft smile. "Ahh! my temper, it was a trembling building that keeps trying to collapse each time the wind blows. It is very..." "Oh god!" Paige interrupted him, almost choking with laughter. "Where the hell did you get such a metaphor from?" Simon started, laughing as well.

It was never just irritation with him-it was a deep-seated cold that clawed into me, a chill that lingered long after my blood had stopped boiling. The afternoon sun blazed against the crown of my head, its heat oppressive, while the rooftop wind skimmed across my cheeks, cool and faint. I tilted my face upward, trying to focus on the birds cutting the sky instead of the ache twisting through my ribs. Their wings looked effortless, clean arcs of freedom against the wide blue. I envied them for that-their distance from people like Simon, from words that cut and clung.

If I dream of the White Wolf tonight, I’m going to ask her advice. I snorted. If I’d been that White Wolf, I’d have told her to stay away from Ella. I was about to close the journal when I saw the second page ended with a poem. Olivia liked to sprinkle poems into her journals. You cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And the dry stone no sound of water. Only There is shadow under this red rock,

Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced, but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed—and gazed—but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills,

Pluck from the thorn the blackberries to bake into pies And do, pointing with eager fingertips into the bushel. Take one another, and I, in your arms beneath the cloak of night Sleepy-eyed, heavy-lidded, whispered words of light. It had been difficult to carve, and I’d sliced through the skin of my fingers as I’d dug my small knife into the stone. But I’d wanted to do it, and I’d felt closer to them as I’d worked the words of my poem into the face of the rock.

sky and as an escalator loves to entangle expensive scarves in its mechanisms. I will love you as a wet paper towel loves to be crumpled into a ball and thrown at a bathroom ceiling and an eraser loves to leave dust in the hairdos of the people who talk too much. I will love you as a cufflink loves to drop from its shirt and explore the party for itself and as a pair of white gloves loves to slip delicately into the punchbowl. I will love you as a taxi loves the muddy splash of a puddle and as a library loves the patient tick of a clock. I will love you as a thief loves a gallery and as a crow loves a murder, as a cloud loves bats and as a range loves braes. I will love you as misfortune lo

“Let me finish this simile of mine first, Mrs. Yulia Kammal… You’re really like a fish living in a small pond for almost your whole life. One day, you bumped into a tortoise. This tortoise actually derived from the similar small pond of yours. But, because she was a tortoise, she could live both on land and in water. This tortoise had just come back from her holiday on the mountain. “This tortoise was going to tell you like this, ‘I’ve just been to the mountain. The scenery over there is immensely beautiful, breath-taking and picturesque.’ “Of course you didn’t understand, so you asked again, ‘Mountain? It must be muddy, wet and full of water. How can it be beautiful, breath-taking and pictu

“There is a cave, Shannon, in the depths of space. It stretches on for infinity, lined with burning tallows. Candles soar to the heights of the stars. Rows of souls nestle together; wax drips as time runs out. Each flame is a life: newborns have full sticks, the middle aged are stubs, and the dying snuff in waxy pools.” “That's impossible.” “It's a metaphor. But it is true.” “Are you a metaphor, then?” He mused: “I consider myself a simile.” I sighed. “Samael, what are you doing?” His face soured, abyssal eyes returning to normal. “I- I don't... know.” He drew back from me, leaving me alone in the frigid air. His gaze darkened. There was a sudden change in his eyes. “What are you

Daphne took the time to glance at the enjoyable expression on her face, and asked: "Are you still going thinking about your sister..." .... .... .... Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; And we are here as on a darkling plain Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Where ignorant armies clash by night. She walks in beauty, like the night

Near its breathtaking coastline, the waves are forever reaching the shore and the faded crescent moon prowled in a corner, a perfect match to the crystal-like glimmers atop the pristine waters. He came and looked at me with the fondness of the summer sky despite the current air around us, cold and ruthless. The warmth of the 5 am sun is nearing yet it seems forever unreachable. "The sky is pretty, right?" I broke the silence. "Yeah. But you're prettier." "Oh, quit the jokes." "Yes, you are the radiance of the stars and all the cosmic bodies combined." My lips curved for the sudden use of metaphors. “You’re good with words, aren’t you? You should be a poet.”