The Motivational Adda

Dust Of Snow The way a crow Shook down on me The dust of snow From a hemlock tree Has given my heart A change of mood And saved some part Of a day I had rued. - ROBERT FROST Links You May Like: Poem - Choose Something like star - https://themotivationaladda.blogspot.com/2019/10/choose-something-like-star-by-robert-frost.html Poem - Birches - https://themotivationaladda.blogspot.com/2019/05/birches-robert-frost.html Poem - Mending Wall -   https://themotivationaladda.blogspot.com/2019/05/mending-wall-robert-frost.html For Robert Frost's Poetries , visit :  https://themotivationaladda.blogspot.com/search/label/Robert%20Frost

Now close the windows and hush all the fields;      If the trees must, let them silently toss; No bird is singing now, and if there is,      Be it my loss. It will be long ere the marshes resume,      It will be long ere the earliest bird: So close the windows and not hear the wind,      But see all wind-stirred.                                      - Robert Frost Theme: Robert Frost is trying to tell us through this poem that it is hard to adjust in a new environment. Robert Frost Poetries: https://themotivationaladda.blogspot.com/search/label/Robert%20Frost Jane Austen Poetries: https://themotivationaladda.blogspot.com/search/label/Jane%20Austen P.B Shelley Poems: https://themotivationaladda.blogspot.com/search/label/P.B.%20Shelley Sonnets: https://themotivationaladda.blogspot.com/search/label/Sonnet

O Star (the fairest one in sight), We grant your loftiness the right To some obscurity of cloud – It will not do to say of night, Since dark is what brings out your light. Some mystery becomes the proud. But to be wholly taciturn In your reserve is not allowed. Say something to us we can learn By heart and when alone repeat. Say something! And it says "I burn." But say with what degree of heat. Talk Fahrenheit, talk Centigrade. Use language we can comprehend. Tell us what elements you blend. It gives us strangely little aid, But does tell something in the end. And steadfast as Keats' Eremite, * Not even stooping from its sphere, It asks a little of us here. It asks of us a certain height, So when at times the mob is swayed To carry praise or blame too far, We may choose something like a star To stay our minds on and be staid.                               - Robert Frost Theme: The Poem 'C hoose something like a star'  is an 'ode' ( an ode

A Stranger came to the door at eve,    And he spoke the bridegroom fair. He bore a green-white stick in his hand,    And, for all burden, care. He asked with the eyes more than the lips    For a shelter for the night, And he turned and looked at the road afar    Without a window light. The bridegroom came forth into the porch    With, ‘Let us look at the sky, And question what of the night to be,    Stranger, you and I.’ The woodbine leaves littered the yard,    The woodbine berries were blue, Autumn, yes, winter was in the wind;    ‘Stranger, I wish I knew.’ Within, the bride in the dusk alone    Bent over the open fire, Her face rose-red with the glowing coal    And the thought of the heart’s desire. The bridegroom looked at the weary road,    Yet saw but her within, And wished her heart in a case of gold    And pinned with a silver pin. The bridegroom thought it little to give    A dole of bread, a purse, A heartfelt prayer

The buzz saw snarled and rattled in the yard And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood, Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it. And from there those that lifted eyes could count Five mountain ranges one behind the other Under the sunset far into Vermont. And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled, As it ran light, or had to bear a load. And nothing happened: day was all but done. Call it a day, I wish they might have said To please the boy by giving him the half hour That a boy counts so much when saved from work. His sister stood beside him in her apron To tell them ‘Supper.’ At the word, the saw, As if to prove saws knew what supper meant, Leaped out at the boy’s hand, or seemed to leap— He must have given the hand. However it was,  Neither refused the meeting. But the hand! The boy’s first outcry was a rueful laugh, As he swung toward them holding up the hand Half in appeal, but half as if to keep The lif

I have been one acquainted with the night. I have walked out in rain—and back in rain. I have outwalked the furthest city light. I have looked down the saddest city lane. I have passed by the watchman on his beat And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain. I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet When far away an interrupted cry Came over houses from another street, But not to call me back or say good-bye; And further still at an unearthly height, One luminary clock against the sky Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right. I have been one acquainted with the night.                              - Robert Frost

My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree  Toward heaven still,  And there's a barrel that I didn't fill  Beside it, and there may be two or three  Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.  But I am done with apple-picking now.  Essence of winter sleep is on the night,  The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.  I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight  I got from looking through a pane of glass  I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough  And held against the world of hoary grass.  It melted, and I let it fall and break.  But I was well  Upon my way to sleep before it fell,  And I could tell  What form my dreaming was about to take.  Magnified apples appear and disappear,  Stem end and blossom end,  And every fleck of russet showing clear.  My instep arch not only keeps the ache,  It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.  I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.  And I keep hearing from the cellar bin  Th

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

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

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

Nothing Gold Can Stay Nature’s first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf’s a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay.                       - Robert Frost

The Oven Bird There is a singer everyone has heard, Loud, a mid-summer and a mid-wood bird, Who makes the solid tree trunks sound again. He says that leaves are old and that for flowers Mid-summer is to spring as one to ten. He says the early petal-fall is past When pear and cherry bloom went down in showers On sunny days a moment overcast; And comes that other fall we name the fall. He says the highway dust is over all. The bird would cease and be as other birds But that he knows in singing not to sing. The question that he frames in all but words Is what to make of a diminished thing.                                                                                                   - Robert Frost