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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But oh! the sweet swing of it, oh! the clear ring of it,
So rhythm I hail it, though critics assail it,
Art or no art.
But everything spoken was told in unbroken
They tell me new methods now govern the Muses,
The tide lilted in with a rhythmical motion;
I knew the tenth billow would rhyme with the first.
The critics declare it an insult to art.
And, doubt it who will, yet those two sounds were rhyming,
And nothing they said was didactic or terse;
The old-fashioned verse with intentional rhymes.
And then on the gray granite precipice burst;
And back in the woodland a little bird sang;
And hold melting rhymes as an insult to art,
Oh! the strong pulse of it, right from the heart,
Below in the village a church bell was chiming,
And quite out of date, too, is rhythmical metre;
I sat by the side of that old poet, Ocean,
And I knew as I counted, while other waves mounted,
And counted the billows that broke on the rocks;
As out o'er the hill-tops they echoed and rang.
The sea-gulls dipped downward in time-keeping flocks.
I watched while a giant wave gathered its forces,
And beautiful rhyming and rhythmical verse.
Oh the great pulse of it, right from the heart,
The Wind and the Trees fell to talking together;
The modes of expression have changed with the times;
That low is the rank of the poet who uses
For oh! the sweet swing of it, oh! the dear ring of it,
Art or no art.
🎉 Congratulations! 🎉
You've successfully reconstructed the poem! Your understanding of poetry and attention to detail is impressive.
They tell me new methods now govern the Muses, The modes of expression have changed with the times; That low is the rank of the poet who uses The old-fashioned verse with intentional rhymes. And quite out of date, too, is rhythmical metre; The critics declare it an insult to art. But oh! the sweet swing of it, oh! the clear ring of it, Oh the great pulse of it, right from the heart, Art or no art.
I sat by the side of that old poet, Ocean, And counted the billows that broke on the rocks; The tide lilted in with a rhythmical motion; The sea-gulls dipped downward in time-keeping flocks. I watched while a giant wave gathered its forces, And then on the gray granite precipice burst; And I knew as I counted, while other waves mounted, I knew the tenth billow would rhyme with the first.
Below in the village a church bell was chiming, And back in the woodland a little bird sang; And, doubt it who will, yet those two sounds were rhyming, As out o'er the hill-tops they echoed and rang.
The Wind and the Trees fell to talking together; And nothing they said was didactic or terse; But everything spoken was told in unbroken And beautiful rhyming and rhythmical verse.
So rhythm I hail it, though critics assail it, And hold melting rhymes as an insult to art, For oh! the sweet swing of it, oh! the dear ring of it, Oh! the strong pulse of it, right from the heart, Art or no art.