The Motivational Adda

We are Seven Analysis: Summary The poem  "We Are Seven"  by William Wordsworth is a conversational poem between the speaker and a little child. The poem portrays the theme of life and death to the innocence of the child who is unaware of the death of their siblings and still thought that they are seven. The poet is astonished after seeing the innocence of the child. The poet also wants to illustrate here that the passage of time brings complexity to us. At young ages, we all used to be innocent and unaware of the overloads of life problems. In the poem, the minor child is oblivious to the fact that their siblings are dead. She still sings and talks to them for the reason as if they all are still alive. Whenever does the speaker ask the child- How many they all are? She replies with great innocence that "We Are Seven!". When the speaker asks where they all live? She answers that- Two of them are in a town named  Conway , and two of them at sea, next two lie beneath t

Nature : William Wordsworth was born on 7 th   April 1770 in England. Wordsworth made his appearance in the field of writing in the year 1787 by publishing a sonnet in " The European Magazine ". William Wordsworth is considered as early Romantic poets. In his school days, he got the chance to saw and feel the nature and its harmony very closely, which also reflects in his poems. William Wordsworth was very fascinated towards natural objects like flowers, bridges, lakes, sunshine etc.. But on the other hand, he never liked the crowd and noise. In these poems like; " The London " and " The world is too much with us " he complains that man is destroying nature and wasting the sources of earth.  Composition of Poems: William Wordsworth was highly influenced by the French Revolution . Wordsworth lost his idealistic view after seeing the rebellions, the bloodshed and all the death that People committed during the French Revolution. The types of the compositio

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 Complaint:-   There is a change—and I am poor; Your love hath been, nor long ago, A fountain at my fond heart's door, Whose only business was to flow; And flow it did; not taking heed Of its own bounty, or my need. What happy moments did I count! Blest was I then all bliss above! Now, for that consecrated fount Of murmuring, sparkling, living love, What have I? shall I dare to tell? A comfortless and hidden well. A well of love—it may be deep— I trust it is,—and never dry: What matter? if the waters sleep In silence and obscurity. —Such change, and at the very door Of my fond heart, hath made me poor. -William Wordsworth Summary And Theme: Poem 'A Complaint' is an example of romantic poetry . For an opening line of "A Complaint", it is a dark, sombre message of the grief that is yet to come – it sets the tone for the rest of 'A Complaint', and opens up the idea of this loss as being something personally shaking. 'A Complaint' speaks about a grav

'Tis eight o'clock,—a clear March night, The moon is up,—the sky is blue, The owlet, in the moonlight air, Shouts from nobody knows where; He lengthens out his lonely shout, Halloo! halloo! a long halloo! —Why bustle thus about your door, What means this bustle, Betty Foy? Why are you in this mighty fret? And why on horseback have you set Him whom you love, your Idiot Boy? Scarcely a soul is out of bed; Good Betty, put him down again; His lips with joy they burr at you; But, Betty! what has he to do With stirrup, saddle, or with rein? But Betty's bent on her intent; For her good neighbour, Susan Gale, Old Susan, she who dwells alone, Is sick, and makes a piteous moan As if her very life would fail.  - WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

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

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

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

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 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 only way to enjoy your life is , Always stay Happy. 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 be but 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