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This journey can be made by the poorest without toll burdens; how frugal is the car that carries the human soul! 2. old english song: a very good book by anonymous oh, for a book and a shady corner, either indoors or outdoors; with the green leaves rustling overhead, or the cry of the street everywhere. where I can read everything to my liking, both new and old; Because a good book to look in is better for me than gold. 3. the bookworm by c.w. pearson to the heroes who gain fame on the battlefields we bear no grudge against the name of the stately lion; those who, insensitive to the concerns of others, are always rough and bad-tempered, we call bears; those who do not learn any lesson from what happens, the always boring and stupid, we call asses. everyone claims to be a lion that I renounce, and avoid all bearish and stupid traits; Nature has cast me elsewhere and I embrace my fate with all my heart; To satisfy an ever-anxious need, I feed myself all day on the leaves of books, and at night I find a resting place in what by day looks like a book case; so, day and night, I think my firm title is that of that busy bum: a bookworm. 4. i opened a book by julia donaldson
I opened a book and went inside. Now no one can find me I have left behind my chair, my house, my road, my town and my world. I’m wearing the cape, I’ve put on the ring, I’ve swallowed the magic potion. I fought a dragon, dined with a king, and plunged into a bottomless ocean. I opened a book and made some friends. I shared her tears and laughter and followed her bumpy, curvy road to happily ever after. I finished my book and left. the cloak can no longer hide me. my chair and my house are the same, but I have a book inside. 5. my book by annette wynne a little door my book may be that leads to fields of minstrelsy, and though you think i feel at home far away in foreign fields, i wander. and here’s a bonus for dessert; a poem about poems, which perfectly describes what it feels like once you get on the poetry train. there is no turning back, because poetry is addictive. pass me the poems please by jane baskwill pass me the poem please stack them on my plate put them right in front of me because I can hardly wait to taste every spicy word every tasty rhyme and when I’ve tasted them once or twice I’ll taste them once more: so pass the poems please, they just don’t get out of my head. I have to have more poems before I go to bed. -anukriti sharma (the author can be contacted at anukritisharma2028@gmail.com)
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