The Motivational Adda

Sonnet 65: Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea, But sad mortality o'er-sways their power, How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, Whose action is no longer than a flower? O, how shall summer's honey breath hold out Against the wreckful siege of battering days, When rocks impregnable are not so stout, Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays? O fearful meditation! where, alack, Shall time's best jewel from times chest lie hid? Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back? Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid? O, none, unless this miracle have might, That is black ink mt love may still shine bright. - William Shakespeare Theme: Sonnet 65 is the continuation of sonnet 64, in these sonnets, Shakespeare depicted the endless ravage of time on love and life. For him, Time is the ultimate destroyer, it destroys everything that anyone thinks is endless. The clutches of time are destructive, it des

William Wordsworth made his debut in the field of writing by publishing a Sonnet in "The European Magazine" in the year 1787. William Wordsworth wrote this Sonnet when he was attending St John's College, Cambridge . He wrote this   Sonnet, on seeing Miss Helen Maria Williams. Sonnet:- She wept - Life's purple tide began to flow In languid Dreams through every thrilling vein ; Dim were my swimming eyes - my pulse beat flow, And my full heart was  swell'd to dear delicious pain, Life left my loaded heart, and closing eyes ; A sigh recall'd the wanderer to my breast ; Dear was the pause of life, and dear the sigh, That call'd the wandered home, and home to rest. That tear proclaims - in thee each virtue dwells, And bright will shine in misery's midnight hour ; As the soft star of dewy evening tells What radiant fires were drown'd by day's malignant pow'r, That only wait the darkness of the night  To chear the wand'ring wretch with hospi

A Fairy Song (Sonnet) Full Explanation, Theme, and Related Questions:- Sonnet Over hill, over dale, Thorough bush, thorough brier, Over park, over pale, Thorough flood, thorough fire! I do wander everywhere, Swifter than the moon's sphere; And I serve the Fairy Queen, To dew her orbs upon the green; The cowslips tall her pensioners be; In their gold coats spots you see; Those be rubies, fairy favours; In those freckles live their savours; I must go seek some dewdrops here, And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear. -William Shakespeare Theme: The poem is all about a fairy serving the fairy queen. Her job is to make everything pretty and put  dew  drops over the cowslips. It is obvious that the theme of this poem is the  life  and job of a fairy. Explanation: Links You May Link: Poetry: https://themotivationaladda.blogspot.com/search/label/Poetry Sonnets: https://themotivationaladda.blogspot.com/search/label/Sonnet Rober

There is another sky, Ever serene and fair, And there is another sunshine, Though it be darkness there; Never mind faded forests, Austin, Never mind silent fields - Here is a little forest, Whose leaf is ever green; Here is a brighter garden, Where not a frost has been; In its unfading flowers I hear the bright bee hum: Prithee, my brother, Into my garden come!                     -  Emily Dickinson The Needle Tree ,Story :   https://themotivationaladda.blogspot.com/2019/04/the-needle-tree.html Poetry : https://themotivationaladda.blogspot.com/search/label/Poetry

O, never say that I was false of heart, Though absence seemed my flame to qualify. As easy might I from my self depart As from my soul which in thy breast doth lie. That is my home of love; if I have ranged, Like him that travels I return again, Just to the time, not with the time exchanged, So that myself bring water for my stain. Never believe though in my nature reigned All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood, That it could so preposterously be stained To leave for nothing all thy sum of good; For nothing this wide universe I call Save thou, my rose, in it thou art my all .                                          -  William Shakespeare

So oft have I invoked thee for my muse, And found such fair assistance in my verse, As every alien pen hath got my use, And under thee their poesy disperse. Thine eyes, that taught the dumb on high to sing, And heavy ignorance aloft to fly, Have added feathers to the learnèd’s wing And given grace a double majesty. Yet be most proud of that which I compile, Whose influence is thine and born of thee. In others’ works thou dost but mend the style, And arts with thy sweet graces gracèd be; But thou art all my art, and dost advance As high as learning my rude ignorance.                                           - William  Shakespeare

Let me not to the marriage of true minds  Admit impediments. Love is not love  Which alters when it alteration finds,  Or bends with the remover to remove.  O no! it is an ever-fixed mark  That looks on tempests and is never shaken;  It is the star to every wand'ring bark,  Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.  Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks  Within his bending sickle's compass come;  Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,  But bears it out even to the edge of doom.  If this be error and upon me prov'd,  I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.                            - William Shakespeare

Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all: What hast thou then more than thou hadst before? No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call— All mine was thine before thou hadst this more. Then if for my love thou my love receivest, I cannot blame thee for my love thou usest; But yet be blamed if thou this self deceivest By wilful taste of what thyself refusest. I do forgive thy robb’ry, gentle thief, Although thou steal thee all my poverty; And yet love knows it is a greater grief To bear love’s wrong than hate’s known injury.     Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,     Kill me with spites, yet we must not be foes.                               - William Shakespeare

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

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer’s lease hath all too short a date; Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm'd; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm'd; But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st; Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st:     So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,  So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.                             - William  Shakespeare

SONNET 52 So am I as the rich, whose blessed key, Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure, The which he will not every hour survey, For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure.   Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare, Since, seldom coming in the long year set, Like stones of worth they thinly placed are, Or captain jewels in the carcanet. So is the time that keeps you as my chest, Or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide, To make some special instant special-blest, By new unfolding his imprisoned pride.     Blessed are you whose worthiness gives scope,     Being had, to triumph, being lacked, to hope.              - William Shakespeare

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;  Coral is far more red than her lips' red;  If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;  If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.  I have seen roses damasked, red and white,  But no such roses see I in her cheeks;  And in some perfumes is there more delight  Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.  I love to hear her speak, yet well I know  That music hath a far more pleasing sound;  I grant I never saw a goddess go;  My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground.     And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare     As any she belied with false compare.             - William Shakespeare

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

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

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

The World Is Too Much With Us The world is too much with us; late and soon,  Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;—  Little we see in Nature that is ours;  We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!  This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;  The winds that will be howling at all hours,  And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;  For this, for everything, we are out of tune;  It moves us not. Great God! I’d rather be  A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;  So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,  Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;  Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;  Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.  - William Shakespeare Summary In the Sonnet "The world is too much with us" poet complains that the modern world is losing its connection with nature. In this fast-paced life, humans don't get enough time to care and appreciate the beauty and harmony of nature which is ours in real means. But instead of doing so, humans are b

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

Mine eye hath play’d the painter and hath steel’d, Thy beauty’s form in table of my heart; My body is the frame wherein ’tis held, And perspective it is best painter’s art. For through the painter must you see his skill, To find where your true image pictured lies, Which in my bosom’s shop is hanging still, That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes. Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done: Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee; Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art, They draw but what they see, know not the heart.                                                           - William Shakespeare

When thou shalt be disposed to set me light, And place my merit in the eye of scorn, Upon thy side against myself I'll fight, And prove thee virtuous, though thou art forsworn. With mine own weakness being best acquainted, Upon thy part I can set down a story Of faults conceal'd, wherein I am attained, That thou in losing me shalt win much glory: And I by this will be a gainer too; For bending all my loving thoughts on thee, The injuries that to myself I do, Doing thee vantage, double-vantage me.    Such is my love, to thee I so belong,    That for thy right myself will bear all wrong.                                        - William Shakespeare

SONNET 98 From you have I been absent in the spring, When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim, Hath put a spirit of youth in everything, That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him. Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell Of different flowers in odour and in hue, Could make me any summer’s story tell, Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew: Nor did I wonder at the lily’s white, Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose; They were but sweet, but figures of delight Drawn after you, – you pattern of all those.     Yet seem’d it winter still, and, you away,     As with your shadow I with these did play.                                         - William Shakespeare