POEM:

Does the road wind up-hill all the way?

Yes, to the very end.

Will the day’s journey take the whole long day?

From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for for the night a resting-place?

A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.

May not the darkness hide it from my face?

You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I met other wayfarers at night?

Those who have gone before.

Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?

They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?

Of labour you shall find the sum.

Will there be beds for me, and all who seek?

Yes, beds for all who come.

For this seminar we were supposed to write our own poem similar to this one.

MY POEM:

How far’s the top?

300 feet up.

What number do I press?

Number 33.

What’s at the top?

A green house full of trees.

How long will it take to get there?

It depends.

On what?

How many stops we have to make.

Ding, there’s one stop,

The screen shows 12,

the doors open and stay,

What do I do?

Step out and quickly step back in.

What if I’m not fast?

You will be stuck forever.

Out then back in

the doors close and up,up,up we go

bing, the does open at 30

out and back in, the doors close

up,up,up,

Ding, 33 at last.