All questions of Figure of Speech Based Questions for CLAT Exam

The seasons twirl through the year like dancers on a grand stage, each bringing its own rhythm and charm. Spring arrives as a shy maiden, her footsteps painting the earth with blossoms that burst like fireworks. Trees, once silent sentinels, now whisper secrets to the breeze, their leaves rustling with tales of renewal. The sun, a generous artist, spills golden hues across meadows, coaxing life from every blade of grass.
Summer strides in boldly, a lion roaring with heat that wraps the world in a warm embrace. Rivers, lazy as sleepy cats, meander through fields, while children’s laughter echoes like a chorus of bells. The days stretch long, as if time itself has paused to bask in the glow of endless afternoons. Yet, summer’s blaze can be a tyrant, scorching the land until it pleads for mercy.
Autumn tiptoes gently, cloaked in a tapestry of crimson and gold. Leaves fall like tears of a poet, mourning the fleeting warmth, yet their descent is a quiet symphony of change. The air turns crisp, a sharp blade slicing through the haze, and the world feels alive with purpose. Farmers gather harvests, their hands weaving stories of toil and triumph.
Winter, the stern elder, blankets the earth in frost, its icy breath silencing the chatter of streams. Bare branches stand like soldiers guarding a frozen kingdom, while snowflakes dance a delicate waltz to the ground. Though winter’s grip seems harsh, it cradles a promise: beneath the cold, seeds dream of spring’s return.
Each season, a chapter in nature’s book, speaks to those who listen. In a village, Maya watches this cycle, her heart swaying with its beauty. She sees in it a mirror of life—full of shifts, yet bound by hope.

The phrase “snowflakes dance a delicate waltz” contains which figure of speech?

The seasons twirl through the year like dancers on a grand stage, each bringing its own rhythm and charm. Spring arrives as a shy maiden, her footsteps painting the earth with blossoms that burst like fireworks. Trees, once silent sentinels, now whisper secrets to the breeze, their leaves rustling with tales of renewal. The sun, a generous artist, spills golden hues across meadows, coaxing life from every blade of grass.
Summer strides in boldly, a lion roaring with heat that wraps the world in a warm embrace. Rivers, lazy as sleepy cats, meander through fields, while children’s laughter echoes like a chorus of bells. The days stretch long, as if time itself has paused to bask in the glow of endless afternoons. Yet, summer’s blaze can be a tyrant, scorching the land until it pleads for mercy.
Autumn tiptoes gently, cloaked in a tapestry of crimson and gold. Leaves fall like tears of a poet, mourning the fleeting warmth, yet their descent is a quiet symphony of change. The air turns crisp, a sharp blade slicing through the haze, and the world feels alive with purpose. Farmers gather harvests, their hands weaving stories of toil and triumph.
Winter, the stern elder, blankets the earth in frost, its icy breath silencing the chatter of streams. Bare branches stand like soldiers guarding a frozen kingdom, while snowflakes dance a delicate waltz to the ground. Though winter’s grip seems harsh, it cradles a promise: beneath the cold, seeds dream of spring’s return.
Each season, a chapter in nature’s book, speaks to those who listen. In a village, Maya watches this cycle, her heart swaying with its beauty. She sees in it a mirror of life—full of shifts, yet bound by hope.

In the phrase “Spring arrives as a shy maiden,” what figure of speech is used?

The seasons twirl through the year like dancers on a grand stage, each bringing its own rhythm and charm. Spring arrives as a shy maiden, her footsteps painting the earth with blossoms that burst like fireworks. Trees, once silent sentinels, now whisper secrets to the breeze, their leaves rustling with tales of renewal. The sun, a generous artist, spills golden hues across meadows, coaxing life from every blade of grass.
Summer strides in boldly, a lion roaring with heat that wraps the world in a warm embrace. Rivers, lazy as sleepy cats, meander through fields, while children’s laughter echoes like a chorus of bells. The days stretch long, as if time itself has paused to bask in the glow of endless afternoons. Yet, summer’s blaze can be a tyrant, scorching the land until it pleads for mercy.
Autumn tiptoes gently, cloaked in a tapestry of crimson and gold. Leaves fall like tears of a poet, mourning the fleeting warmth, yet their descent is a quiet symphony of change. The air turns crisp, a sharp blade slicing through the haze, and the world feels alive with purpose. Farmers gather harvests, their hands weaving stories of toil and triumph.
Winter, the stern elder, blankets the earth in frost, its icy breath silencing the chatter of streams. Bare branches stand like soldiers guarding a frozen kingdom, while snowflakes dance a delicate waltz to the ground. Though winter’s grip seems harsh, it cradles a promise: beneath the cold, seeds dream of spring’s return.
Each season, a chapter in nature’s book, speaks to those who listen. In a village, Maya watches this cycle, her heart swaying with its beauty. She sees in it a mirror of life—full of shifts, yet bound by hope.

In “summer’s blaze can be a tyrant,” what figure of speech is used to describe summer?

The seasons twirl through the year like dancers on a grand stage, each bringing its own rhythm and charm. Spring arrives as a shy maiden, her footsteps painting the earth with blossoms that burst like fireworks. Trees, once silent sentinels, now whisper secrets to the breeze, their leaves rustling with tales of renewal. The sun, a generous artist, spills golden hues across meadows, coaxing life from every blade of grass.
Summer strides in boldly, a lion roaring with heat that wraps the world in a warm embrace. Rivers, lazy as sleepy cats, meander through fields, while children’s laughter echoes like a chorus of bells. The days stretch long, as if time itself has paused to bask in the glow of endless afternoons. Yet, summer’s blaze can be a tyrant, scorching the land until it pleads for mercy.
Autumn tiptoes gently, cloaked in a tapestry of crimson and gold. Leaves fall like tears of a poet, mourning the fleeting warmth, yet their descent is a quiet symphony of change. The air turns crisp, a sharp blade slicing through the haze, and the world feels alive with purpose. Farmers gather harvests, their hands weaving stories of toil and triumph.
Winter, the stern elder, blankets the earth in frost, its icy breath silencing the chatter of streams. Bare branches stand like soldiers guarding a frozen kingdom, while snowflakes dance a delicate waltz to the ground. Though winter’s grip seems harsh, it cradles a promise: beneath the cold, seeds dream of spring’s return.
Each season, a chapter in nature’s book, speaks to those who listen. In a village, Maya watches this cycle, her heart swaying with its beauty. She sees in it a mirror of life—full of shifts, yet bound by hope.

What figure of speech is evident in “Trees, once silent sentinels, now whisper secrets to the breeze”?

The seasons twirl through the year like dancers on a grand stage, each bringing its own rhythm and charm. Spring arrives as a shy maiden, her footsteps painting the earth with blossoms that burst like fireworks. Trees, once silent sentinels, now whisper secrets to the breeze, their leaves rustling with tales of renewal. The sun, a generous artist, spills golden hues across meadows, coaxing life from every blade of grass.
Summer strides in boldly, a lion roaring with heat that wraps the world in a warm embrace. Rivers, lazy as sleepy cats, meander through fields, while children’s laughter echoes like a chorus of bells. The days stretch long, as if time itself has paused to bask in the glow of endless afternoons. Yet, summer’s blaze can be a tyrant, scorching the land until it pleads for mercy.
Autumn tiptoes gently, cloaked in a tapestry of crimson and gold. Leaves fall like tears of a poet, mourning the fleeting warmth, yet their descent is a quiet symphony of change. The air turns crisp, a sharp blade slicing through the haze, and the world feels alive with purpose. Farmers gather harvests, their hands weaving stories of toil and triumph.
Winter, the stern elder, blankets the earth in frost, its icy breath silencing the chatter of streams. Bare branches stand like soldiers guarding a frozen kingdom, while snowflakes dance a delicate waltz to the ground. Though winter’s grip seems harsh, it cradles a promise: beneath the cold, seeds dream of spring’s return.
Each season, a chapter in nature’s book, speaks to those who listen. In a village, Maya watches this cycle, her heart swaying with its beauty. She sees in it a mirror of life—full of shifts, yet bound by hope.

The expression “blossoms that burst like fireworks” primarily employs which figure of speech?