Thought of the week

Extra ordinary people not do different things

They do things differently

The Solitary Reaper

A voice so thrilling ne'er heard

In spring time from cuckoo-bird

Breaking the silence of the seas

Amoung 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 motre humble lay

Familier matter of to-day?

Same natural sorrow, loss, or pain,

that has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang

As if her song could have no ending

I saw her singing at her work

And o'er the sticle bending

I listen'd, motionless and still

And as i mounted up the hill

The music in my heart I bore

Long after it was heard no more

- William Wordsworth

The road not taken

Two roads divergedin a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveller, long i stood

And I looked down one as far as i could

To where it bent in the undergrowth,

Then took the other, as just as fair

And having perhaps the better claim

Because it was grassy and wanted wear

Thought as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morninig equally lay,

In leaves no step had trodden black

Oh! I kept the first for another day

yet knowing how way leads on to way

I doubted if i should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence,

Two roads diverged in a wodd, and I-

I took the one less travelled by,

And that has made all the difference

- Robert Frost