The Motivational Adda

'I've a pain in my head' Said the suffering Beckford; To her Doctor so dread. 'Oh! what shall I take for't?' Said this Doctor so dread Whose name it was Newnham. 'For this pain in your head Ah! What can you do Ma'am?' Said Miss Beckford, 'Suppose If you think there's no risk, I take a good Dose Of calomel brisk.'-- 'What a praise worthy Notion.' Replied Mr. Newnham. 'You shall have such a potion And so will I too Ma'am.'  - Jane Austen

"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