CUET English: Verbal AbilityPoem. Free, no login required.

Read the following poem. Answer the question that follow:

At the Museum

But is 2500 B. C. Harappa,

who cast in bronze a servant girl?

No one keeps records

of soldiers and slaves.

The sculptor knew this,

polishing the ache

off her fingers stiff

from washing the walls

and scrubbing the floors,

from stirring the meat

and the crushed asafoetida

in the bitter gourd.

But I'm grateful she smiled

at the sculptor,

as she smiles at me

in bronze,

a child who had to play women

to her lord

when the warm June rains

came to Harappa.

Read the following poem. Answer the question that follow:

At the Museum

But is 2500 B. C. Harappa,

who cast in bronze a servant girl?

No one keeps records

of soldiers and slaves.

The sculptor knew this,

polishing the ache

off her fingers stiff

from washing the walls

and scrubbing the floors,

from stirring the meat

and the crushed asafoetida

in the bitter gourd.

But I'm grateful she smiled

at the sculptor,

as she smiles at me

in bronze,

a child who had to play women

to her lord

when the warm June rains

came to Harappa.

Read the following poem. Answer the question that follow:

At the Museum

But is 2500 B. C. Harappa,

who cast in bronze a servant girl?

No one keeps records

of soldiers and slaves.

The sculptor knew this,

polishing the ache

off her fingers stiff

from washing the walls

and scrubbing the floors,

from stirring the meat

and the crushed asafoetida

in the bitter gourd.

But I'm grateful she smiled

at the sculptor,

as she smiles at me

in bronze,

a child who had to play women

to her lord

when the warm June rains

came to Harappa.

Read the following poem. Answer the question that follow:

At the Museum

But is 2500 B. C. Harappa,

who cast in bronze a servant girl?

No one keeps records

of soldiers and slaves.

The sculptor knew this,

polishing the ache

off her fingers stiff

from washing the walls

and scrubbing the floors,

from stirring the meat

and the crushed asafoetida

in the bitter gourd.

But I'm grateful she smiled

at the sculptor,

as she smiles at me

in bronze,

a child who had to play women

to her lord

when the warm June rains

came to Harappa.

Read the following poem. Answer the question that follow:

At the Museum

But is 2500 B. C. Harappa,

who cast in bronze a servant girl?

No one keeps records

of soldiers and slaves.

The sculptor knew this,

polishing the ache

off her fingers stiff

from washing the walls

and scrubbing the floors,

from stirring the meat

and the crushed asafoetida

in the bitter gourd.

But I'm grateful she smiled

at the sculptor,

as she smiles at me

in bronze,

a child who had to play women

to her lord

when the warm June rains

came to Harappa.

A River

In Madurai,

city of temples and poets,

who sang of cities and temples,

every summer

a river dries to a trickle

in the sand,

baring the sand ribs,

straw and women's hair

clogging the watergates

at the rusty bars

under the bridges with patches

of repair all over them

the wet stones glistening like sleepy

crocodiles, the dry ones

shaven water-buffaloes lounging in the sun

The poet only sang of the floods

He was there for a day

when they had the floods.

People everywhere talked

of the inches rising,

of the precise number of cobbled steps

run over by the water, rising

on the bathing places,

and the way it carries of three village houses,

one pregnant woman

and a couple of cows

named Gopi and Brinda as usual.

A River

In Madurai,

city of temples and poets,

who sang of cities and temples,

every summer

a river dries to a trickle

in the sand,

baring the sand ribs,

straw and women's hair

clogging the watergates

at the rusty bars

under the bridges with patches

of repair all over them

the wet stones glistening like sleepy

crocodiles, the dry ones

shaven water-buffaloes lounging in the sun

The poet only sang of the floods

He was there for a day

when they had the floods.

People everywhere talked

of the inches rising,

of the precise number of cobbled steps

run over by the water, rising

on the bathing places,

and the way it carries of three village houses,

one pregnant woman

and a couple of cows

named Gopi and Brinda as usual.

A River

In Madurai,

city of temples and poets,

who sang of cities and temples,

every summer

a river dries to a trickle

in the sand,

baring the sand ribs,

straw and women's hair

clogging the watergates

at the rusty bars

under the bridges with patches

of repair all over them

the wet stones glistening like sleepy

crocodiles, the dry ones

shaven water-buffaloes lounging in the sun

The poet only sang of the floods

He was there for a day

when they had the floods.

People everywhere talked

of the inches rising,

of the precise number of cobbled steps

run over by the water, rising

on the bathing places,

and the way it carries of three village houses,

one pregnant woman

and a couple of cows

named Gopi and Brinda as usual.

A River

In Madurai,

city of temples and poets,

who sang of cities and temples,

every summer

a river dries to a trickle

in the sand,

baring the sand ribs,

straw and women's hair

clogging the watergates

at the rusty bars

under the bridges with patches

of repair all over them

the wet stones glistening like sleepy

crocodiles, the dry ones

shaven water-buffaloes lounging in the sun

The poet only sang of the floods

He was there for a day

when they had the floods.

People everywhere talked

of the inches rising,

of the precise number of cobbled steps

run over by the water, rising

on the bathing places,

and the way it carries of three village houses,

one pregnant woman

and a couple of cows

named Gopi and Brinda as usual.

A River

In Madurai,

city of temples and poets,

who sang of cities and temples,

every summer

a river dries to a trickle

in the sand,

baring the sand ribs,

straw and women's hair

clogging the watergates

at the rusty bars

under the bridges with patches

of repair all over them

the wet stones glistening like sleepy

crocodiles, the dry ones

shaven water-buffaloes lounging in the sun

The poet only sang of the floods

He was there for a day

when they had the floods.

People everywhere talked

of the inches rising,

of the precise number of cobbled steps

run over by the water, rising

on the bathing places,

and the way it carries of three village houses,

one pregnant woman

and a couple of cows

named Gopi and Brinda as usual.

Winter is cold, with gusts of tumbling snow,

When rain falls down and nothing ever grows.

For children, it's the snow that they desire

And cups of cocoa in front of the fire.

When winter's gone, the grass grows green again.

Roses and tulips sprout with bright green stems.

The bees are buzzing, the birds are singing.

Sheep are grazing and cow bells are ringing.

And then the sun starts to shine too brightly.

It's so hot that fans are put on nightly,

And so then it's off to the beach or pools

Where people swim about just to keep cool.

All the leaves on the trees turn golden-brown,

And when on the ground make a crackly sound.

In autumn a lot of money you make

From clearing backyards of leaves with a rake.

Each season has its own goods and its bads,

But since they are all different I am glad!

Winter is cold, with gusts of tumbling snow,

When rain falls down and nothing ever grows.

For children, it's the snow that they desire

And cups of cocoa in front of the fire.

When winter's gone, the grass grows green again.

Roses and tulips sprout with bright green stems.

The bees are buzzing, the birds are singing.

Sheep are grazing and cow bells are ringing.

And then the sun starts to shine too brightly.

It's so hot that fans are put on nightly,

And so then it's off to the beach or pools

Where people swim about just to keep cool.

All the leaves on the trees turn golden-brown,

And when on the ground make a crackly sound.

In autumn a lot of money you make

From clearing backyards of leaves with a rake.

Each season has its own goods and its bads,

But since they are all different I am glad!

Winter is cold, with gusts of tumbling snow,

When rain falls down and nothing ever grows.

For children, it's the snow that they desire

And cups of cocoa in front of the fire.

When winter's gone, the grass grows green again.

Roses and tulips sprout with bright green stems.

The bees are buzzing, the birds are singing.

Sheep are grazing and cow bells are ringing.

And then the sun starts to shine too brightly.

It's so hot that fans are put on nightly,

And so then it's off to the beach or pools

Where people swim about just to keep cool.

All the leaves on the trees turn golden-brown,

And when on the ground make a crackly sound.

In autumn a lot of money you make

From clearing backyards of leaves with a rake.

Each season has its own goods and its bads,

But since they are all different I am glad!

Winter is cold, with gusts of tumbling snow,

When rain falls down and nothing ever grows.

For children, it's the snow that they desire

And cups of cocoa in front of the fire.

When winter's gone, the grass grows green again.

Roses and tulips sprout with bright green stems.

The bees are buzzing, the birds are singing.

Sheep are grazing and cow bells are ringing.

And then the sun starts to shine too brightly.

It's so hot that fans are put on nightly,

And so then it's off to the beach or pools

Where people swim about just to keep cool.

All the leaves on the trees turn golden-brown,

And when on the ground make a crackly sound.

In autumn a lot of money you make

From clearing backyards of leaves with a rake.

Each season has its own goods and its bads,

But since they are all different I am glad!

Read the following poem given below and answer the question.

LOVE AND A QUESTION

A STRANGER came to the door at eve,

And he spoke the bridegroom fair.

He bore a green-white stick in his hand,

And, for all burden, care.

He asked with the eyes more than the lips

For a shelter for the night,

And he turned and looked at the road afar

Without a window light.

The bridegroom came forth into the porch

With "Let us look at the sky,

And question what of the night to be,

Stranger, you and I."

The woodbine leaves littered the yard,

The woodbine berries were blue,

Autumn, yes, winter was in the wind;

"Stranger, I wish I knew."

Within, the bride in the dusk alone

Bent over the open fire,

Her face rose-red with the glowing coal

And the thought of the heart's desire.

The bridegroom looked at the weary road,

Yet saw but her within,

And wished her heart in a case of gold

And pinned with a silver pin.

The bridegroom thought it little to give

a dole of bread, a purse,

A heartfelt prayer for the poor of God,

Or for the rich a curse,

But whether or not a man was asked

To mar the love of two

By harboring woe in the bridal house,

The bridegroom wished he knew.

Read the following poem given below and answer the question.

LOVE AND A QUESTION

A STRANGER came to the door at eve,

And he spoke the bridegroom fair.

He bore a green-white stick in his hand,

And, for all burden, care.

He asked with the eyes more than the lips

For a shelter for the night,

And he turned and looked at the road afar

Without a window light.

The bridegroom came forth into the porch

With "Let us look at the sky,

And question what of the night to be,

Stranger, you and I."

The woodbine leaves littered the yard,

The woodbine berries were blue,

Autumn, yes, winter was in the wind;

"Stranger, I wish I knew."

Within, the bride in the dusk alone

Bent over the open fire,

Her face rose-red with the glowing coal

And the thought of the heart's desire.

The bridegroom looked at the weary road,

Yet saw but her within,

And wished her heart in a case of gold

And pinned with a silver pin.

The bridegroom thought it little to give

a dole of bread, a purse,

A heartfelt prayer for the poor of God,

Or for the rich a curse,

But whether or not a man was asked

To mar the love of two

By harboring woe in the bridal house,

The bridegroom wished he knew.

Read the following poem given below and answer the question.

LOVE AND A QUESTION

A STRANGER came to the door at eve,

And he spoke the bridegroom fair.

He bore a green-white stick in his hand,

And, for all burden, care.

He asked with the eyes more than the lips

For a shelter for the night,

And he turned and looked at the road afar

Without a window light.

The bridegroom came forth into the porch

With "Let us look at the sky,

And question what of the night to be,

Stranger, you and I."

The woodbine leaves littered the yard,

The woodbine berries were blue,

Autumn, yes, winter was in the wind;

"Stranger, I wish I knew."

Within, the bride in the dusk alone

Bent over the open fire,

Her face rose-red with the glowing coal

And the thought of the heart's desire.

The bridegroom looked at the weary road,

Yet saw but her within,

And wished her heart in a case of gold

And pinned with a silver pin.

The bridegroom thought it little to give

a dole of bread, a purse,

A heartfelt prayer for the poor of God,

Or for the rich a curse,

But whether or not a man was asked

To mar the love of two

By harboring woe in the bridal house,

The bridegroom wished he knew.

Read the following poem given below and answer the question.

LOVE AND A QUESTION

A STRANGER came to the door at eve,

And he spoke the bridegroom fair.

He bore a green-white stick in his hand,

And, for all burden, care.

He asked with the eyes more than the lips

For a shelter for the night,

And he turned and looked at the road afar

Without a window light.

The bridegroom came forth into the porch

With "Let us look at the sky,

And question what of the night to be,

Stranger, you and I."

The woodbine leaves littered the yard,

The woodbine berries were blue,

Autumn, yes, winter was in the wind;

"Stranger, I wish I knew."

Within, the bride in the dusk alone

Bent over the open fire,

Her face rose-red with the glowing coal

And the thought of the heart's desire.

The bridegroom looked at the weary road,

Yet saw but her within,

And wished her heart in a case of gold

And pinned with a silver pin.

The bridegroom thought it little to give

a dole of bread, a purse,

A heartfelt prayer for the poor of God,

Or for the rich a curse,

But whether or not a man was asked

To mar the love of two

By harboring woe in the bridal house,

The bridegroom wished he knew.

A GIRL'S GARDEN

A NEIGHBOUR of mine in the village

likes to tell how one spring

When she was a girl on the farm, she did

A childlike thing.

One day she asked her father

To give her a garden plot

To plant and tend and reap herself,

And he said, "Why not ?"

In casting about for a corner

He thought of an idle bit

Or walled-off ground where a shop had stood,

And he said, "Just it."

And he said, "That ought to make you

An ideal one-girl farm,

And give you a chance to put some strength

On your slim-jim arm".

It was not enough of a garden,

Her father said, to plough;

So she had to work it all by hand,

But she don't mind now.

She wheeled the dung in the wheelbarrow

Along a stretch of road;

But she always ran away and left

Her not-nice load,

And hid from anyone passing.

And then she begged the seed.

She says she thinks she planted one

Of all things but weed.

A hill each of potatoes,

Radishes, lettuce, peas,

Tomatoes, beets, beans, pumpkins, corn.

And even fruit trees.

And yes, she was long mistrusted

That a cider apple tree

In bearing there today is hers,

Or at least may be.

Her crop was a miscellany

When all was said and done,

A little bit of everything,

A great deal of none.

A GIRL'S GARDEN

A NEIGHBOUR of mine in the village

likes to tell how one spring

When she was a girl on the farm, she did

A childlike thing.

One day she asked her father

To give her a garden plot

To plant and tend and reap herself,

And he said, "Why not ?"

In casting about for a corner

He thought of an idle bit

Or walled-off ground where a shop had stood,

And he said, "Just it."

And he said, "That ought to make you

An ideal one-girl farm,

And give you a chance to put some strength

On your slim-jim arm".

It was not enough of a garden,

Her father said, to plough;

So she had to work it all by hand,

But she don't mind now.

She wheeled the dung in the wheelbarrow

Along a stretch of road;

But she always ran away and left

Her not-nice load,

And hid from anyone passing.

And then she begged the seed.

She says she thinks she planted one

Of all things but weed.

A hill each of potatoes,

Radishes, lettuce, peas,

Tomatoes, beets, beans, pumpkins, corn.

And even fruit trees.

And yes, she was long mistrusted

That a cider apple tree

In bearing there today is hers,

Or at least may be.

Her crop was a miscellany

When all was said and done,

A little bit of everything,

A great deal of none.

A GIRL'S GARDEN

A NEIGHBOUR of mine in the village

likes to tell how one spring

When she was a girl on the farm, she did

A childlike thing.

One day she asked her father

To give her a garden plot

To plant and tend and reap herself,

And he said, "Why not ?"

In casting about for a corner

He thought of an idle bit

Or walled-off ground where a shop had stood,

And he said, "Just it."

And he said, "That ought to make you

An ideal one-girl farm,

And give you a chance to put some strength

On your slim-jim arm".

It was not enough of a garden,

Her father said, to plough;

So she had to work it all by hand,

But she don't mind now.

She wheeled the dung in the wheelbarrow

Along a stretch of road;

But she always ran away and left

Her not-nice load,

And hid from anyone passing.

And then she begged the seed.

She says she thinks she planted one

Of all things but weed.

A hill each of potatoes,

Radishes, lettuce, peas,

Tomatoes, beets, beans, pumpkins, corn.

And even fruit trees.

And yes, she was long mistrusted

That a cider apple tree

In bearing there today is hers,

Or at least may be.

Her crop was a miscellany

When all was said and done,

A little bit of everything,

A great deal of none.

A GIRL'S GARDEN

A NEIGHBOUR of mine in the village

likes to tell how one spring

When she was a girl on the farm, she did

A childlike thing.

One day she asked her father

To give her a garden plot

To plant and tend and reap herself,

And he said, "Why not ?"

In casting about for a corner

He thought of an idle bit

Or walled-off ground where a shop had stood,

And he said, "Just it."

And he said, "That ought to make you

An ideal one-girl farm,

And give you a chance to put some strength

On your slim-jim arm".

It was not enough of a garden,

Her father said, to plough;

So she had to work it all by hand,

But she don't mind now.

She wheeled the dung in the wheelbarrow

Along a stretch of road;

But she always ran away and left

Her not-nice load,

And hid from anyone passing.

And then she begged the seed.

She says she thinks she planted one

Of all things but weed.

A hill each of potatoes,

Radishes, lettuce, peas,

Tomatoes, beets, beans, pumpkins, corn.

And even fruit trees.

And yes, she was long mistrusted

That a cider apple tree

In bearing there today is hers,

Or at least may be.

Her crop was a miscellany

When all was said and done,

A little bit of everything,

A great deal of none.

"I cannot go to school today,"

Said little Peggy Ann McKay.

"I have the measles and the mumps,

A gash, a rash and purple bumps.

My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,

I'm going blind in my right eye.

My tonsils are as big as rocks,

I've counted sixteen chicken pox

And there's one more-that's seventeen,

And don't you think my face looks green?

My leg is cut-my eyes are blue-

It might be instamatic flu.

I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,

I'm sure that my left leg is broke-

My hip hurts when I move my chin,

My belly button's caving in,

My back is wrenched, my ankle's sprained,

My 'pendix pains each time it rains.

My nose is cold, my toes are numb.

I have a sliver in my thumb.

My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,

I hardly whisper when I speak.

My tongue is filling up my mouth,

I think my hair is falling out.

My elbow's bent, my spine ain't straight,

My temperature is one-eight.

My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,

There is a hole inside my ear.

I have a hangnail, and my heart is-what?

What's that? What's that you say?

You say today is... Saturday?

G'bye, I'm going out to play!"

"I cannot go to school today,"

Said little Peggy Ann McKay.

"I have the measles and the mumps,

A gash, a rash and purple bumps.

My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,

I'm going blind in my right eye.

My tonsils are as big as rocks,

I've counted sixteen chicken pox

And there's one more-that's seventeen,

And don't you think my face looks green?

My leg is cut-my eyes are blue-

It might be instamatic flu.

I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,

I'm sure that my left leg is broke-

My hip hurts when I move my chin,

My belly button's caving in,

My back is wrenched, my ankle's sprained,

My 'pendix pains each time it rains.

My nose is cold, my toes are numb.

I have a sliver in my thumb.

My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,

I hardly whisper when I speak.

My tongue is filling up my mouth,

I think my hair is falling out.

My elbow's bent, my spine ain't straight,

My temperature is one-eight.

My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,

There is a hole inside my ear.

I have a hangnail, and my heart is-what?

What's that? What's that you say?

You say today is... Saturday?

G'bye, I'm going out to play!"

"I cannot go to school today,"

Said little Peggy Ann McKay.

"I have the measles and the mumps,

A gash, a rash and purple bumps.

My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,

I'm going blind in my right eye.

My tonsils are as big as rocks,

I've counted sixteen chicken pox

And there's one more-that's seventeen,

And don't you think my face looks green?

My leg is cut-my eyes are blue-

It might be instamatic flu.

I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,

I'm sure that my left leg is broke-

My hip hurts when I move my chin,

My belly button's caving in,

My back is wrenched, my ankle's sprained,

My 'pendix pains each time it rains.

My nose is cold, my toes are numb.

I have a sliver in my thumb.

My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,

I hardly whisper when I speak.

My tongue is filling up my mouth,

I think my hair is falling out.

My elbow's bent, my spine ain't straight,

My temperature is one-eight.

My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,

There is a hole inside my ear.

I have a hangnail, and my heart is-what?

What's that? What's that you say?

You say today is... Saturday?

G'bye, I'm going out to play!"

"I cannot go to school today,"

Said little Peggy Ann McKay.

"I have the measles and the mumps,

A gash, a rash and purple bumps.

My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,

I'm going blind in my right eye.

My tonsils are as big as rocks,

I've counted sixteen chicken pox

And there's one more-that's seventeen,

And don't you think my face looks green?

My leg is cut-my eyes are blue-

It might be instamatic flu.

I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,

I'm sure that my left leg is broke-

My hip hurts when I move my chin,

My belly button's caving in,

My back is wrenched, my ankle's sprained,

My 'pendix pains each time it rains.

My nose is cold, my toes are numb.

I have a sliver in my thumb.

My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,

I hardly whisper when I speak.

My tongue is filling up my mouth,

I think my hair is falling out.

My elbow's bent, my spine ain't straight,

My temperature is one-eight.

My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,

There is a hole inside my ear.

I have a hangnail, and my heart is-what?

What's that? What's that you say?

You say today is... Saturday?

G'bye, I'm going out to play!"

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 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 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 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.