The Motivational Adda

"Your Tough Time Teaches You How TO Live in Good Times."

To a Butterfly I've watched you now a full half-hour; Self-poised upon that yellow flower And, little Butterfly! indeed I know not if you sleep or feed. How motionless!--not frozen seas More motionless! and then What joy awaits you, when the breeze Hath found you out among the trees, And calls you forth again! This plot of orchard-ground is ours; My trees they are, my Sister's flowers; Here rest your wings when they are weary; Here lodge as in a sanctuary! Come often to us, fear no wrong; Sit near us on the bough! We'll talk of sunshine and of song, And summer days, when we were young; Sweet childish days, that were as long As twenty days are now. ________________________ STAY near me--do not take thy flight! A little longer stay in sight! Much converse do I find in thee, Historian of my infancy! Float near me; do not yet depart! Dead times revive in thee: Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art! A solemn image to my heart, My father's family! Oh! pleasant, pl

No one can tell me, Nobody knows, Where the wind comes from, Where the wind goes. It's flying from somewhere As fast as it can, I couldn't keep up with it, Not if I ran. But if I stopped holding The string of my kite, It would blow with the wind For a day and a night. And then when I found it, Wherever it blew, I should know that the wind Had been going there too. So then I could tell them Where the wind goes… But where the wind comes from Nobody knows.    - A.A.Milne Theme: The poem "Wind on the Hill" written by A.A.Milne talks about the power of wind which is unseen by everyone in the world. The poet is a small boy who thinks about the wind and comes to the conclusion that wind is something which no one has ever seen. Links You May Like: William Shakespeare: https://themotivationaladda.blogspot.com/search/label/William%20Shakespeare William Blake: https://themotivationaladda.blogspot.com/s

When my mother died I was very young,  And my father sold me while yet my tongue  Could scarcely cry " 'weep! 'weep! 'weep! 'weep!"  So your chimneys I sweep & in soot I sleep.  There's little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head  That curled like a lamb's back, was shaved, so I said,  "Hush, Tom! never mind it, for when your head's bare,  You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair."  And so he was quiet, & that very night,  As Tom was a-sleeping he had such a sight!  That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, & Jack,  Were all of them locked up in coffins of black;  And by came an Angel who had a bright key,  And he opened the coffins & set them all free;  Then down a green plain, leaping, laughing they run,  And wash in a river and shine in the Sun.  Then naked & white, all their bags left behind,  They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind.  And the Angel told

When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,  And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,  Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:  Then being ask'd where all thy beauty lies,  Where all the treasure of thy lusty days;  To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes, Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise. How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use, If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine  Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,'  Proving his beauty by succession thine!  This were to be new made when thou art old,  And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.                                    - William Shakespeare Theme: The speaker pleas on behalf of common sense and logic and aims directly for the conscience of the subject - the presumed fair youth - hoping to persuade him to have children and thus preserve his bea

When I see birches bend to left and right Across the lines of straighter darker trees, I like to think some boy's been swinging them. But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning After a rain. They click upon themselves As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel. Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust— Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen. They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load, And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed So low for long, they never right themselves: You may see their trunks arching in the woods Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair Before them over their heads to dry in the sun. But I

I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed—and gazed—but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.                   -William Wordsworth Theme: The speaker says that wandering like a cloud floating above hills and valley

"It is good to be silent when you Don't have enough Knowledge about that thing."

SONNET - 1 That thereby beauty’s rose might never die,  But as the riper should by time decease,  His tender heir might bear his memory:  But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,  Feed’st thy light’st flame with self-substantial fuel,  Making a famine where abundance lies,  Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.  Thou that art now the world’s fresh ornament  And only herald to the gaudy spring,  Within thine own bud buriest thy content  And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.  Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world’s due, by the grave and thee.                                                         - William  Shakespeare Links You May Like: Poetry: https://themotivationaladda.blogspot.com/search/label/Poetry Sonnets: https://themotivationaladda.blogspot.com/search/label/Sonnet William Shakespeare Sonnets: https://themotivationaladda.blogspot.com/search?q=william+shakespeare+sonnets

The land was ours before we were the land’s. She was our land more than a hundred years Before we were her people. She was ours In Massachusetts, in Virginia, But we were England’s, still colonials, Possessing what we still were unpossessed by, Possessed by what we now no more possessed. Something we were withholding made us weak Until we found out that it was ourselves We were withholding from our land of living, And forthwith found salvation in surrender. Such as we were we gave ourselves outright (The deed of gift was many deeds of war) To the land vaguely realizing westward, But still unstoried, artless, unenhanced, Such as she was, such as she would become.                                                                                      -Robert Frost

I met a traveller from an antique land, Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand, Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed; And on the pedestal, these words appear: My name is Ozymandias , King of Kings; Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair! Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away.”                              - P.B.Shelley

Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it, And spills the upper boulders in the sun; And makes gaps even two can pass abreast. The work of hunters is another thing: I have come after them and made repair Where they have left not one stone on a stone, But they would have the rabbit out of hiding, To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean, No one has seen them made or heard them made, But at spring mending-time we find them there. I let my neighbour know beyond the hill; And on a day we meet to walk the line And set the wall between us once again. We keep the wall between us as we go. To each the boulders that have fallen to each. And some are loaves and some so nearly balls We have to use a spell to make them balance: "Stay where you are until our backs are turned!" We wear our fingers rough with handling them. Oh, just another kind of out-door game, One on a side. It comes to

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,  From the seas and the streams; I bear light shade for the leaves when laid  In their noonday dreams.  From my wings are shaken the dews that waken  The sweet buds every one,  When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,  As she dances about the sun.  I wield the flail of the lashing hail,  And whiten the green plains under,  And then again I dissolve it in rain,  And laugh as I pass in thunder.  I sift the snow on the mountains below,  And their great pines groan aghast;  And all the night 'tis my pillow white,  While I sleep in the arms of the blast.  Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers,  Lightning my pilot sits;  In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,  It struggles and howls at fits;  Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,  This pilot is guiding me,  Lured by the love of the genii that move  In the depths of the purple sea;  Over the rills, and the crags, and the