The 7 Lenses for Close Reading
7th Grade Poetry Assignment: Choose one of
the following poems and apply the 7 Lenses to
show your understanding and analysis of the
poem. Complete your analysis on the attached
Note Catcher. Remember that your Writer’s
Handbook has the guiding questions for the 7
Lenses.
In order to earn an A + Extra Credit:
 Complete all 7 lenses in detail for
“Maestro” and “The Village Blacksmith”
In order to earn an A:
 Complete all 7 lenses in detail for either
“Maestro” or “The Village Blacksmith”.
In order to earn a B:
 Complete all 7 lenses in detail for “I’m
Nobody” or
 Complete all the lenses except the
Context Lens for “I build walls”
In order to earn a C:
 Complete the Personal, Semantic,
Linguistic, and Metaphoric Lenses for any
one of the poems
I'm Nobody! Who are you?
By Emily Dickinson
I'm Nobody! Who are you?
Are you – Nobody – too?
Then there's a pair of us!
Don't tell! they'd advertise – you
know!
How dreary – to be – Somebody!
How public – like a Frog –
To tell one's name – the livelong
June –
To an admiring Bog!
Maestro
By: Pat Mora
He hears her
When he bows
Rows of hands clap
Again and again he bows
To stage lights and upturned faces
But he hears only his mother’s voice
Years ago in their small home
Singing Mexican songs
One phrase at a time
While his father strummed the guitar
Or picked the melody with quick
fingertips.
Both cast their music in the air
For him to snare with his strings,
Songs of lunas and amor
Learned bit by bit.
She’d nod, smile as his bow slid
Note to note, then the trio
Voz, guitarra, violin
Would blend again and again
To the last pure note
Sweet on the toungue.
The Village Blacksmith
By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.
I Build Walls
I build walls:
Walls that protect,
Walls that shield,
Walls that say I shall not yield
Or reveal
Who I am or how I feel.
I build walls:
Walls that hide,
Walls that cover what’s inside,
Walls that stare or smile or look
away,
Silent lies,
Walls that even block my eyes
From the tears I might have cried.
I build walls:
Walls that never let me
Truly touch
Those I love so very much.
Walls that need to fall!
Walls meant to be fortresses
Are prisons after all.