Poems for Grades 6-8

Here are a few poems that can be read, memorised and recited by children in Grades 6 – 8.

The Green Lady by Charlotte Druit Cole

A lovely Green Lady
Embroiders and stitches
Sweet flowers in the meadows,
On banks and in ditches.

All day she is sewing,
Embroidering all night;
For she works in the darkness
As well as the light.

She makes no mistake in
The silks which she uses,
And all her gay colours
She carefully chooses.

She fills nooks and corners
With blossoms so small,
Where none but the fairies
Will see them at all.

She sews them so quickly,
She trims them so neatly,
Though much of her broidery
Is hidden completely.

She scatters her tapestry
Scented and sweet,
In the loneliest places,
Or ‘neath careless feet;
For bee, or for bird folk,
For children like me,
But the lovely Green Lady,
No mortal may see.

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud – William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

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,
And dances with the daffodils.


The Ocean and the Spring – Victor Hugo
Translated from French

The Spring fell from a lofty bluff
Drop by drop to the Ocean’s trough
Thundering thus, spake the vast sea
“Little Weeper, what do you want of me?”

“I am the dreaded tempest and fear
My limits nudge the wide azure
What need have I of thee
I who am immensity?”

Thus spoke the spring to the gulf profound
“I offer to you, without glory or sound
What most you lack, O huge, great sea
A drop of my water to sweeten thee.”

A Poison Tree – William Blake

I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears
Night & morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole,
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretchd beneath the tree.

The Tree in the Garden – Christine Chaundler

There’s a tree out in our garden which is very nice to climb
And, I often go and climb it when it’s fine summer time,
And when I’ve climber right up it I pretend it’s not a tree
But a ship in which I’m sailing, far away across the sea

It’s branches are rigging and the grass so far below
I make believe it’s the ocean over which my ship must go;
And when the wind is blowing then I really seem to be
A-sailing, sailing, sailing, far away across the sea

Then I hunt for desert islands and I very often find
A chest stuffed full of treasure which some pirate’s left behind-
My good ship’s hold is filled with gold-it all belongs to me-
For I ‘ve found it when I’m sailing far away across the sea

It’s a lovely game to play at-though the tree trunk’s rather green.
Still, when I’m in my bath at night I always come quite clean.
And so through all the summer, in my good ship Treasure-Tree,
I shall often go a-sailing far away across the sea.

In The Bazaars of Hyderabad – Sarojini Naidu

What do you sell, 0 ye merchants?
Richly your wares are displayed,
Turbans of crimson and silver,
Tunics of purple brocade,
Mirrors with panels of amber,
Daggers with handles of jade.

What do you weigh, 0 ye vendors?
Saffron and lentil and rice.
What do you grind, 0 ye maidens?
Sandalwood, henna and spice.
What do you call, 0 ye pedlars?
Chessmen and ivory dice.

What do you make, 0 ye goldsmiths?
Wristlet and anklet and ring,
Bells for the feet of blue pigeons,
Frail as a dragon-fly’s wing,
Girdles of gold for the dancers,
Scabbards of gold for the king.

What do you cry, 0 ye fruitmen?
Citron, pomegranate and plum.
What do you play, 0 musicians?
Cithar, sarangi and drum.
What do you chant, 0 magicians?
Spells for the aeons to come.

What do you weave, 0 ye flower-girls?
With tassels of azure and red?
Crowns for the brow of a bridegroom,
Chaplets to garland his bed,
Sheets of white blossoms new-gathered
To perfume the sleep of the dead.

If – Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you  
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,   
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;   
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;   
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;   
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;   
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winning
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,   
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,   
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,   
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,   
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

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