Reconstruct the poem by dragging each line into its correct position. You can also use the up (↑) and down (↓) arrows to move a line one place at a time, or the top (⇑) and bottom (⇓) arrows to move a line directly to the top or bottom. Your goal is to reassemble the original poem as accurately as possible. As you move the lines, you'll see whether your arrangement is correct, helping you explore the poem's flow and meaning. You can also print out the jumbled poem to cut up and reassemble in the classroom. Either way, take your time, enjoy the process, and discover how the poet's words come together to create something truly beautiful.
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Without his Father's word;
His voice no longer heard.
And streamed above the gallant child,
There came a burst of thunder sound—
In still yet brave despair.
And in his waving hair,
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,
If I may yet begone!
The wreathing fires made way,
A creature of heroic blood,
Was that young faithful heart!
And"—but the booming shots replied,
A proud, though child-like form.
Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
The boy—oh! where was he?
With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
The boy stood on the burning deck
Speak, Father!" once again he cried
The flames roll'd on—he would not go
Upon his brow he felt their breath,
He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.
That Father, faint in death below,
He call'd aloud:—"Say, Father, say
And fast the flames roll'd on.
But the noblest thing which perished there
And shouted but once more aloud,
My Father, must I stay?
Whence all but him had fled;
Shone round him o'er the dead.
With fragments strewed the sea!
They caught the flag on high,
As born to rule the storm;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck
Like banners in the sky.
They wrapt the ship in splendour wild,
That well had borne their part—
If yet my task is done?
And looked from that lone post of death,
Ask of the winds that far around
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You've successfully reconstructed the poem! Your understanding of poetry and attention to detail is impressive.
The boy stood on the burning deck Whence all but him had fled; The flame that lit the battle's wreck Shone round him o'er the dead.
Yet beautiful and bright he stood, As born to rule the storm; A creature of heroic blood, A proud, though child-like form.
The flames roll'd on—he would not go Without his Father's word; That Father, faint in death below, His voice no longer heard.
He call'd aloud:—"Say, Father, say If yet my task is done?" He knew not that the chieftain lay Unconscious of his son.
"Speak, Father!" once again he cried "If I may yet begone! And"—but the booming shots replied, And fast the flames roll'd on.
Upon his brow he felt their breath, And in his waving hair, And looked from that lone post of death, In still yet brave despair.
And shouted but once more aloud, "My Father, must I stay?" While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, The wreathing fires made way,
They wrapt the ship in splendour wild, They caught the flag on high, And streamed above the gallant child, Like banners in the sky.
There came a burst of thunder sound— The boy—oh! where was he? Ask of the winds that far around With fragments strewed the sea!
With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, That well had borne their part— But the noblest thing which perished there Was that young faithful heart!