Here’s a List of Truly Awful Similes
A breath of melancholy made itself felt like a chill and sudden gust from some unknown sea
A glacial pang of pain like the stab of a dagger of ice frozen from a poisoned well
A name which sounds even now like the call of a trumpet
As amusing as a litter of likely young pigs
Brute terrors like the scurrying of rats in a deserted attic
Cheeks as soft as July peaches
Debasing fancies gather like foul birds
Each moment was an iridescent bubble fresh-blown from the lips of fancy
Grazing through a circulating library as contentedly as cattle in a fresh meadow
He snatched furiously at breath like a tiger snatching at meat
He was so weak now, like a shrunk cedar white with the hoar-frost
Her dusky cheek would burn like a poppy
Her expression changed with the rapidity of a kaleidoscope
Her hair dropped on her pallid cheeks, like sea-weed on a clam
Her laugh is like a rainbow-tinted spray
Herding his thoughts as a collie dog herds sheep
His nerves thrilled like throbbing violins
His talk is like an incessant play of fireworks
I was as sensitive as a barometer
Incredible little white teeth, like snow shut in a rose
Laughter like a beautiful bubble from the rosebud of baby-hood
Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue
Like a damp-handed auctioneer
Like a festooned girdle encircling the waist of a bride
Like a slim bronze statue of Despair
Like a summer-dried fountain
Like dead lovers who died true
Like Death, who rides upon a thought, and makes his way through temple, tower, and palace
Like some unshriven churchyard thing, the friar crawled
Like the detestable and spidery araucaria
Like the sea-worm, that perforates the shell of the mussel, which straightway closes the wound with a pearl
Like thoughts whose very sweetness yielded proof that they were born for immortality
Love had like the canker-worm consumed her early prime
Pale and grave as a sculptured nun
Pride and self-disgust served her like first-aid surgeons on the battlefield
Put on gravity like a robe
The dreams of poets come like music heard at evening from the depth of some enchanted forest
The pine trees waved as waves a woman’s hair
Whose music like a robe of living light reclothed each new-born age
You are as gloomy to-night as an undertaker out of employment
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