Read the following poem and answer the questions by choosing the correct/most appropriate options:

I set out at dawn with an empty notebook, the pages breathing like small white sails.
“Who will teach me to keep time?” I asked the mist that clung to the river stairs.

The clockmaker lifted a velvet cloth from brass and glass.
“Count the teeth, trust the springs,” he said, and wound the key till the hands grew stern.
But the tick was a cage, and I stepped back into the street.

At noon the market sang with scales and cries.
A merchant pressed his ledger to my chest. “Mark gain and loss,” he whispered.
The columns rose like walls, and the sun forgot my face.

Dusk leaned against the theater doors, perfumed with dust and paint.
The actress, jeweled in shadow, said, “Keep time by applause; it is a warm rain.”
The clapping faded to moths in the rafters, and the silence kept its own counsel.

Night found me on the pier where the lighthouse blinked its patient eye.
The astronomer traced cold fire across a velvet sky. “Measure intervals between the burning,” she murmured.
I wrote distances until the stars grew heavy, and the page would not turn.

Before the first bird, the river rose, shouldering the dark aside.
A ferryman, sleeves wet to the elbow, tapped my notebook with an oar.
“Keep time with your crossing,” he said, “push, release, drift, arrive.”
I folded the book and felt the water’s pulse in my ribs.
From then on, I walked by the tide’s breath, and time kept me.

Read the following poem and answer the questions by choosing the correct/most appropriate options:

I set out at dawn with an empty notebook, the pages breathing like small white sails.
“Who will teach me to keep time?” I asked the mist that clung to the river stairs.

The clockmaker lifted a velvet cloth from brass and glass.
“Count the teeth, trust the springs,” he said, and wound the key till the hands grew stern.
But the tick was a cage, and I stepped back into the street.

At noon the market sang with scales and cries.
A merchant pressed his ledger to my chest. “Mark gain and loss,” he whispered.
The columns rose like walls, and the sun forgot my face.

Dusk leaned against the theater doors, perfumed with dust and paint.
The actress, jeweled in shadow, said, “Keep time by applause; it is a warm rain.”
The clapping faded to moths in the rafters, and the silence kept its own counsel.

Night found me on the pier where the lighthouse blinked its patient eye.
The astronomer traced cold fire across a velvet sky. “Measure intervals between the burning,” she murmured.
I wrote distances until the stars grew heavy, and the page would not turn.

Before the first bird, the river rose, shouldering the dark aside.
A ferryman, sleeves wet to the elbow, tapped my notebook with an oar.
“Keep time with your crossing,” he said, “push, release, drift, arrive.”
I folded the book and felt the water’s pulse in my ribs.
From then on, I walked by the tide’s breath, and time kept me.

Read the following poem and answer the questions by choosing the correct/most appropriate options:

I set out at dawn with an empty notebook, the pages breathing like small white sails.
“Who will teach me to keep time?” I asked the mist that clung to the river stairs.

The clockmaker lifted a velvet cloth from brass and glass.
“Count the teeth, trust the springs,” he said, and wound the key till the hands grew stern.
But the tick was a cage, and I stepped back into the street.

At noon the market sang with scales and cries.
A merchant pressed his ledger to my chest. “Mark gain and loss,” he whispered.
The columns rose like walls, and the sun forgot my face.

Dusk leaned against the theater doors, perfumed with dust and paint.
The actress, jeweled in shadow, said, “Keep time by applause; it is a warm rain.”
The clapping faded to moths in the rafters, and the silence kept its own counsel.

Night found me on the pier where the lighthouse blinked its patient eye.
The astronomer traced cold fire across a velvet sky. “Measure intervals between the burning,” she murmured.
I wrote distances until the stars grew heavy, and the page would not turn.

Before the first bird, the river rose, shouldering the dark aside.
A ferryman, sleeves wet to the elbow, tapped my notebook with an oar.
“Keep time with your crossing,” he said, “push, release, drift, arrive.”
I folded the book and felt the water’s pulse in my ribs.
From then on, I walked by the tide’s breath, and time kept me.

Read the following poem and answer the questions by choosing the correct/most appropriate options:

I set out at dawn with an empty notebook, the pages breathing like small white sails.
“Who will teach me to keep time?” I asked the mist that clung to the river stairs.

The clockmaker lifted a velvet cloth from brass and glass.
“Count the teeth, trust the springs,” he said, and wound the key till the hands grew stern.
But the tick was a cage, and I stepped back into the street.

At noon the market sang with scales and cries.
A merchant pressed his ledger to my chest. “Mark gain and loss,” he whispered.
The columns rose like walls, and the sun forgot my face.

Dusk leaned against the theater doors, perfumed with dust and paint.
The actress, jeweled in shadow, said, “Keep time by applause; it is a warm rain.”
The clapping faded to moths in the rafters, and the silence kept its own counsel.

Night found me on the pier where the lighthouse blinked its patient eye.
The astronomer traced cold fire across a velvet sky. “Measure intervals between the burning,” she murmured.
I wrote distances until the stars grew heavy, and the page would not turn.

Before the first bird, the river rose, shouldering the dark aside.
A ferryman, sleeves wet to the elbow, tapped my notebook with an oar.
“Keep time with your crossing,” he said, “push, release, drift, arrive.”
I folded the book and felt the water’s pulse in my ribs.
From then on, I walked by the tide’s breath, and time kept me.

Read the following poem and answer the questions by choosing the correct/most appropriate options:

I set out at dawn with an empty notebook, the pages breathing like small white sails.
“Who will teach me to keep time?” I asked the mist that clung to the river stairs.

The clockmaker lifted a velvet cloth from brass and glass.
“Count the teeth, trust the springs,” he said, and wound the key till the hands grew stern.
But the tick was a cage, and I stepped back into the street.

At noon the market sang with scales and cries.
A merchant pressed his ledger to my chest. “Mark gain and loss,” he whispered.
The columns rose like walls, and the sun forgot my face.

Dusk leaned against the theater doors, perfumed with dust and paint.
The actress, jeweled in shadow, said, “Keep time by applause; it is a warm rain.”
The clapping faded to moths in the rafters, and the silence kept its own counsel.

Night found me on the pier where the lighthouse blinked its patient eye.
The astronomer traced cold fire across a velvet sky. “Measure intervals between the burning,” she murmured.
I wrote distances until the stars grew heavy, and the page would not turn.

Before the first bird, the river rose, shouldering the dark aside.
A ferryman, sleeves wet to the elbow, tapped my notebook with an oar.
“Keep time with your crossing,” he said, “push, release, drift, arrive.”
I folded the book and felt the water’s pulse in my ribs.
From then on, I walked by the tide’s breath, and time kept me.

Read the following poem and answer the questions by choosing the correct/most appropriate options:

I set out at dawn with an empty notebook, the pages breathing like small white sails.
“Who will teach me to keep time?” I asked the mist that clung to the river stairs.

The clockmaker lifted a velvet cloth from brass and glass.
“Count the teeth, trust the springs,” he said, and wound the key till the hands grew stern.
But the tick was a cage, and I stepped back into the street.

At noon the market sang with scales and cries.
A merchant pressed his ledger to my chest. “Mark gain and loss,” he whispered.
The columns rose like walls, and the sun forgot my face.

Dusk leaned against the theater doors, perfumed with dust and paint.
The actress, jeweled in shadow, said, “Keep time by applause; it is a warm rain.”
The clapping faded to moths in the rafters, and the silence kept its own counsel.

Night found me on the pier where the lighthouse blinked its patient eye.
The astronomer traced cold fire across a velvet sky. “Measure intervals between the burning,” she murmured.
I wrote distances until the stars grew heavy, and the page would not turn.

Before the first bird, the river rose, shouldering the dark aside.
A ferryman, sleeves wet to the elbow, tapped my notebook with an oar.
“Keep time with your crossing,” he said, “push, release, drift, arrive.”
I folded the book and felt the water’s pulse in my ribs.
From then on, I walked by the tide’s breath, and time kept me.