The Motivational Adda

A Chieftan to the Highlands bound, Cries, ‘Boatman, do not tarry; And I’ll give thee a silver pound To row us o’er the ferry.’ ‘Now who be ye would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water?’ ‘Oh! I’m the chief of Ulva’s isle, And this Lord Ullin’s daughter. ‘And fast before her father’s men Three days we’ve fled together, For should he find us in the glen, My blood would stain the heather. ‘His horsemen hard behind us ride; Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover?’ Outspoke the hardy Highland wight: ‘I’ll go, my chief – I’m ready: It is not for your silver bright, But for your winsome lady. ‘And by my word, the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry: So, though the waves are raging white, I’ll row you o’er the ferry.’ By this the storm grew loud apace, The water-wraith was shrieking; And in the scowl of heaven each face Grew dark as they were speaking. But still, as wilder blew the wind, And as the night grew dre

Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books;  Or surely you'll grow double:  Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks;  Why all this toil and trouble?  The sun above the mountain's head,  A freshening lustre mellow  Through all the long green fields has spread,  His first sweet evening yellow.  Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife:  Come, hear the woodland linnet,  How sweet his music! on my life,  There's more of wisdom in it.  And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!  He, too, is no mean preacher:  Come forth into the light of things,  Let Nature be your teacher.  She has a world of ready wealth,  Our minds and hearts to bless—  Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,  Truth breathed by cheerfulness.  One impulse from a vernal wood  May teach you more of man,  Of moral evil and of good,  Than all the sages can.  Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;  Our meddling intellect  Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of

The Solitary Reaper:- Behold her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland Lass! Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass! Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain; O listen! for the Vale profound Is overflowing with the sound. No Nightingale did ever chaunt More welcome notes to weary bands Of travellers in some shady haunt, Among Arabian sands: A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides. Will no one tell me what she sings?— Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago: Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again? Whatever the theme, the Maiden sang As if her song could've no ending. I saw her singing at her work, And o'er the sickle bending;— I listened, motionless and still; And, a

The ring is on my hand, And the wreath is on my brow; Satin and jewels grand Are all at my command, And I am happy now. And my lord he loves me well; But, when first he breathed his vow, I felt my bosom swell- For the words rang as a knell, And the voice seemed his who fell In the battle down the dell, And who is happy now. But he spoke to re-assure me, And he kissed my pallid brow, While a reverie came o'er me, And to the church-yard bore me, And I sighed to him before me, Thinking him dead D'Elormie, "Oh, I am happy now!" And thus the words were spoken, And this the plighted vow, And, though my faith be broken, And, though my heart be broken, Here is a ring, as token That I am happy now! Would God I could awaken! For I dream I know not how! And my soul is sorely shaken Lest an evil step be taken,- Lest the dead who is forsaken May not be happy now.                        - Edgar Allan Poe