Sorry, my English is'nt good enough to chat.
I only can write letters.
Karl


>From: "benwen25" <aliceleng80@...>
>Reply-To: Graffito@...
>To: Graffito@...
>Subject: [Graffito] I am very interested in your yahoo profile!!
>Date: Mon, 29 Jan 2007 06:37:49 -0000
>
>I am a 22 years old girl, I just saw your yahoo profile in my group
>and like it a lot! Could you sign up this site for free to chat to me
>directly? Then we can know each other better. My username is Judylee
>on this site.
>
>http://www.lovemuslim.beam.at
>
>

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----- Original Message -----

From: Claire

To: Graffito@...

Sent: Friday, December 22, 2006 12:08 AM

Subject: Re: [Graffito] Re: Who Wrote "Twas The Night Before Christmas"?

Merci Rolland ! Et meilleurs voeux !

-----  Who Wrote "Twas The Night Before Christmas"?

 

Amitiés,
Rolland

Hi,i am Cathleen,i saw your profile in my group and like it very
much. You can sign up this site for free to see my detailed profile and
photo album, my username is Monica. We are chat on this site freely if
you are interested in me too!

http://www.geocities.com/luckydating02

-----  Who Wrote "Twas The Night Before Christmas"?

 

Amitiés,
Rolland

----- Original Message -----

From: rpavarotti_clubs@...

To: Graffito@...

Sent: Tuesday, December 12, 2006 11:22 AM

Subject: Who Wrote "Twas The Night Before Christmas"?

Who Wrote "Twas The Night Before Christmas"? By Henry Litchfield West The best known Christmas poem in the English language begins . . .  Twas the night before Christmas, where all through the house, Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. Its history is not only romantic, but there is also a question as to its authorship. The poem was apparently first published on December 23, 1823, in the Troy, New York, "Sentinel."  It was titled "An Account of a Visit from St. Nicholas;" occupied nearly a column in small type, and was prefaced with a sympathetic note, written by Orville L. Holley, the editor:   We know not to whom we are indebted for the following description of that unwearied patron of music—that homely and delightful personage of parental kindness, Santa Claus, his costumes, and his equipage, as he goes about visiting the firesides of this happy land, laden with Christmas bounties; but from whomsoever it may have come, we give thanks for it. There is, to our apprehension, a spirit of cordial goodness in it, a playfulness of fancy and a benevolent alacrity to enter into the feelings and promote the simple pleasures of children which are altogether charming. We hope our little patrons, both lads and lassies, will accept it as a proof of our unfeigned good will towards them—as a token of our warmest wish that they may have many a Merry Christmas; that they may long retain their beautiful relish for those unbought home­bred joys which derive their flavor from filial piety and fraternal love, and which they may be assured are the least alloyed that time can furnish them; and that they may never part with that simplicity of character which is their own fairest ornament and for the sake of which they have been pronounced by Authority which none can gainsay, types of such of us as shall inherit the kingdom of heaven. Thus the first publication of the poem is shrouded in mystery. Whether the copy was sent in anonymously or whether the editor deliberately falsified in proclaiming ignorance of its source, no one will ever know; but the fact remains that the very first sentence of this appreciative editorial comment only serves to render the solution of the problem more difficult. The poem was used un-illustrated as a carriers' address by the Troy "Sentinel" in several succeeding years and was printed in the "Morning Courier," New York City, on January 1, 1829. It was again used as an address by the Troy "Sentinel" in 1830 and apparently was not again reprinted until it appeared in a little volume entitled "Poems by Clement C. Moore, LL.D.," and published in 1844 by Bartlett and Welford, 7 Astor Place, New York City. This book contains a lengthy preface, which begins as follows: My dear Children: In compliance with your wishes, I here present you with a volume of verses written by me at different periods of my life. I have not made a selection from among my verses of such as are of any particular cast, but have given you the melancholy and the lively, the serious and the sportive, and even the trifling; such as relate solely to our domestic circle and those of which the subjects take a wider range. . . . We are so constituted that a good honest, hearty laugh, which conceals no malice, and is excited by nothing corrupt, however ungenteel it may be, is healthful to both body and mind; and it is one of the benevolent ordinances of Providence that we are thus capable of these alternations of sorrow and trouble with mirth and gladness. Another reason why the mere trifles in this volume have not been withheld is that such things have been often found by me to afford greater pleasure than what was by myself esteemed of more worth. This evidence of an appreciation of the lighter things of life is an important factor in the controversy, because Dr. Moore was a man of serious nature and without reputation as a humorist. He was born July 15, 1779. His father, Right Reverend Benjamin Moore, was the second Protestant Episcopal bishop of New York, assisted at the inauguration of President Washington, and administered communion to Alexander Hamilton when the latter was dying after his fatal duel with Aaron Burr. Dr. Moore was educated for the church, became proficient in classical languages, and upon the opening of the General Theological Seminary, of which he was the founder and benefactor, served as professor of Oriental and Greek literature. The trend of his mind was distinctly sober and grave; but when it is remembered that "Alice in Wonderland" was written by a teacher of mathematics, and that "Nonsense Novels" and "The Elements of Political Science" have the same authorship, it may not seem incongruous that the writer of a merry jingle also compiled "A Compendious Lexicon of the Hebrew Language," with an explanation of every word in the Psalms. The combination of grave and gay in literature has happened more than once. The commonly accepted story of the first publication of the poem, while lacking documentary authenticity, is explicit and plausible and has gained credence through frequent repetition. It relates that Miss Harriet Butler, eldest daughter of Reverend Dr. David Butler, rector of St. Paul's Church in Troy, while visiting Dr. Moore's family in 1822, heard the poem read, copied it into her album, and in the Christmas season of 1823 sent it to the Troy "Sentinel." It has also been printed that Dr. Moore was chagrined over the publication, "which he apparently considered quite beneath the dignity of a theological professor," but it is difficult to reconcile this statement with the fact that the poem appeared without affording the slightest clue to its author. Up to the time of his death, July 10, 1862, Dr. Moore was evidently undisturbed as to any future question of his fame, for he made no effort to substantiate his own position. He had published the poem under his own name in 1844, twenty-one years after it had first appeared, and on March 24, 1856, he furnished a holographic copy in response to a written request, stating in his letter that "I wish the enclosed was more worthy of attention." In 1862 the New York Historical Society sent a representative to interview him. The report of this agent, published in the Bulletin of the Society under date of January, 1919, is disappointing in its lack of detail as to the origin of the poem. Dr. Moore, then eighty-three years old, did not state that he had furnished the original copy to Miss Butler but, according to the interview, explained that she had copied the poem from another copy furnished by one of Dr. Moore's female relatives. He was further quoted as saying that "a portly rubicund Dutchman, living in the neighborhood of his father's country seat, Chelsea, suggested to him the idea of making St. Nicholas the hero of the Christmas piece," which, he added, had been written forty years previously for his two children. As a matter of fact, Dr. Moore had three children in 1822. The eldest, Charity, named after her mother, was six years of age; Clement was a baby of two, and Emily was only eight months old. Only the eldest child could have had the slightest interest in hearing about St. Nicholas. The interviewer made no inquiry of Dr. Moore respecting the original draft, which, so far as known, is not now in existence. Apparently the original manuscript is not in the custody of the Moore family, for Casimir deR. Moore, grandson of Dr. Moore, writing in answer to an inquiry, says:  My grandfather, Clement C. Moore, wrote it for the enjoyment of his children and had no intention of publishing it. A connection of the family saw it while on a visit to my grandfather, copied it, and had it published anonymously in a Troy paper, I believe. There were at once several persons who claimed to be the author; and it was not until urged to do so that my grandfather acknowledged that he was the author. This I have understood from my father, uncle and aunts to be the facts in the case. I think my grandfather’s reputation stands sufficiently high in warranting me in saying that he never could have said he was the author unless he was so in fact.  What became of the original manuscript I cannot say. Although "A Visit from St. Nicholas" is universally known today, it does not seem to have acquired instant popularity. As already stated, it was occasionally used as a newspaper carriers' address, its appearance in 1830 being made memorable by a wood engraving executed by Myron King, of Troy, in which the children's patron saint and his "eight tiny reindeer" were depicted levitating over the house-tops. In 1849 Griswold published a second edition of his anthology of American poetry in which the poem was included, with credit to Dr. Moore; and a reprint also appeared in "The Cyclopaedia of American Literature," published by the Duyckincks in 1855. In 1862 it was issued in a separate volume with illustrations by F. O. C. Darley, since which time it has found a place in nearly every school reader, with annual publication as a Christmas feature in a large number of newspapers. The doubt as to Dr. Moore's authorship has assumed definite form; and this is due to the intelligent and unremitting industry of William S. Thomas, a well-known physician of New York City.  Dr. Thomas is the great-grandson of Henry Livingston, Jr., who was born in 1748 and died in 1828, residing throughout his life at "Locust Grove" near Poughkeepsie, New York. He was a man of distinction, a student, a surveyor, a landed proprietor, a major of infantry in Montgomery's ill-fated expedition into Canada; and so much of a patriot that in his old music-book he altered "God Save the King" into "God Save the Congress."  Above all, he was a deft manipulator of rhymes; and for more than a century there has been a tradition—or, rather, a positive belief—among his descendants that he wrote the famous Christmas poem. Dr. Thomas has attempted to discover the foundation for this belief. Naturally the effort has been attended with much difficulty, owing to the length of time which has elapsed since the rhyme was written, but the mass of testimony which he has collected is worthy of consideration in the hope that eventually the question of authorship will be definitely settled.  It must be admitted, first of all, that the evidence is purely circumstantial. There is not extant a single written document which shows that Henry Livingston himself ever laid claim to authorship, but this may be explained by the fact that he had been dead sixteen years when Dr. Moore's volume appeared. There is no doubt that his family regarded him as the author; and a succinct expression of this belief is found in the letter of Mrs. Edward Livingston Montgomery, as follows: The little incident connected with the first reading of "A Visit from St. Nicholas" was related to me by my grandmother, Catherine Breese, the eldest daughter of Henry Livingston. As I recollect her story there was a young lady spending the Christmas holidays with the family at Locust Grove. On Christmas morning Mr. Livingston came into the dining room, where the family and their guests were just sitting down to breakfast. He held the manuscript in his hand and said that it was a Christmas poem he had written for them. He then sat down at the table and read aloud to them "A Visit from St. Nicholas." All were delighted with the verses and the guest, in particular, was so much impressed by them that she begged Mr. Livingston to let her have a copy of the poem. He consented and made a copy in his own hand, which he gave to her. On leaving Locust Grove, when her visit came to an end, this young lady went directly to the home of Clement C. Moore, where she filled the position of governess to his children. So well grounded is the faith of the Livingston family in their ancestor's authorship that as long ago as 1865-1870, when Dr. Thomas's father was teaching in Churchill's Academy at Sing Sing, New York, he had an argument with a grandson of Dr. Moore, who was among his pupils, because the latter naturally credited his grandfather with writing the poem. Again, in 1879, Mrs. Eliza Livingston Thompson wrote that "the poem was supposed and believed in our family to be father's and I well remember our astonishment when we saw it claimed by Clement C. Moore many years after my father's decease, which took place more than fifty years ago. At that time my brother, in looking over his papers, found the original in his own handwriting, with his many fugitive pieces which he had preserved." And Henry Livingston, of Babylon, Long Island, not only substantiates this statement, but again refers to the original and accounts for its disappearance as follows: My father, as long ago as I can remember, claimed that his father (Henry, Jr.) was the author; that it was first read to the children at the old homestead below Poughkeepsie, when be was about eight years old, which would be about 1804 or 1805. He had the original manuscript, with many corrections, in his possession for a long time, and by him was given to his brother Edwin, and Edwin's personal effects were destroyed when his sister Susan's home was burned at Waukesha, Wisconsin, about 1847 or 1848. There are, of course, some discrepancies in these recorded recollections. If the poem was first read in 1804 or 1805, it could not have been in the presence of the governess of Dr. Moore's children, for Dr. Moore at that time was only twenty-five or twenty-six years old and unmarried. A reconciliation of these conflicting statements is suggested by Gertrude Fonda Thomas, of Cambridge, Massachusetts, a granddaughter of Henry Livingston. She says that the governess was connected with Mr. Livingston's family. Another factor in the case is Eliza Clement Brewer, who lived at "Russ Plaets," adjoining "Locust Grove," and who married Charles Livingston, son of Henry Livingston. Her granddaughter, Mrs. Rudolph Denig, wife of a retired commodore of the navy, states that her grandmother told her that in 1808, while visiting at the Livingston home, she heard Mr. Livingston recite the poem as his own. When Charles, who had been West, returned in 1826 to marry Miss Brewer, he carried back with him a newspaper in which the poem had been printed and kept it in his desk for many years. In view of the possibility that this newspaper was the Poughkeepsie publication to which Mr. Livingston contributed, a search has been made of the now incomplete files, but thus far without success; and it is probable that the newspaper was the Troy "Sentinel." The fact that he had the paper and carefully preserved it is a matter of family history. All these threads of family tradition are tied together with what might be called internal corroboration. Major Livingston left a manuscript volume of poems, many of which were printed in a Poughkeepsie paper and in other publications. The fact that they were all printed anonymously or under the pseudonym "R” is alleged to account for his failure to publicly claim the authorship of the now famous poem. An examination of the forty-five productions included in this collection shows that nineteen are the same meter as the poem in controversy, while in Dr. Moore's volume all of the thirty-three poems are iambic, with the exception of "A Visit From St. Nicholas" and "The Pig and the Rooster." The latter, beginning: On a warm sunny day in the midst of July, A lazy young pig lay stretched out in his sty . . . is distinctly inferior in theme and treatment to the Christmas effort. Major Livingston evidently loved the anapestic meter, which Edward Everett says “is better adapted than any other measure to lively and spirited subjects." In this connection there should be mentioned three of his poems, one a letter in rhyme to his brother Beekman, which begins thus: To my dear brother Beekman: I sit down to write, Ten minutes past eight and a very cold night. Not far from me sits, with a baullancy cap on, Our very good cousin, Elizabeth Tappan; A tighter young seamstress you'd ne'er wish to see, And she, (blessings on her) is sewing for me. And this conclusion of a carriers' address, written in 1787: And now the end of all this clatter Is but a small and trifling matter; A puny sixpence or a shilling From willing souls to souls as willing. And the tribute which he paid to Nancy Crooke, who was a belle in Poughkeepsie, where her name is still a treasured memory, and which concluded as follows: If a pin or a handkerchief happen to fall, To seize on the prize fills with uproar the hall; Such pulling and hauling and shoving and pushing, As rivals the racket of "Key and the cushion"; And happy—thrice happy!  too happy!  the swain Who can replace the pin or bandanna again. These are, to say the least, in the style of "A Visit from St. Nicholas." A further examination of Livingston's versifications discloses his delight in the use of such rhymes as "clatter" and "matter," "belly" and "jelly," "elf" and "self;" all of which are to be found in "St. Nicholas." He was fond of repetitive phrases, such as "to the top of the porch, to the top of the wall."  He invariably used the word mamma, when referring to his wife, while the adverbial use of the word all and the odd usage of gave, occurring frequently both in his verses and the Christmas poem, are cited as additional evidence in his favor. Then, further, he was fond of the idea of levitation, while tininess frequently appealed to him. In one of his poems he describes Oberon as riding in a tiny royal coach made of a nutshell drawn by "green katydids." And, finally, he repeatedly wove into his lines some references to articles of clothing — shoes, soft "shammy" gloves, ruffles, wristbands, new shirts, cravats, and even "chamezes"—just as in "St. Nicholas" there is a description of "mamma in her 'kerchief and I in my cap." Surely if Livingston did not write "A Visit from St. Nicholas" he wrote much that was cast in the same mold. And even if this is all that can be said, it is enough to excite curiosity, to say the least. It recalls the famous observation of Martin Hewitt, that "two trivialities, pointing in the same direction, become at once, by their mere agreement, no trivialities at all." Perhaps this idea was in the mind of Benson J. Lossing, the historian, when he wrote to one of Livingston's descendants as long ago as 1886, that "the circumstantial evidence that your great-grandfather wrote 'A Visit from St. Nicholas’ seems as conclusive as that which has taken innocent men to the gallows." The circle in which the question has been discussed has been restricted because of the previous unwillingness of Mr. Livingston's family to allow publicity for a belief which has been cherished by them for a century. The work which has been undertaken, and which is here only partially recorded, is, of course, a labor of love; and it has been prosecuted with full appreciation of the difficulty in overturning an apparently established fact. Dr. Moore's authorship, resting upon the inclusion of the poem in his published volume, has stood practically unchallenged; and the burden of disproving the claim of a man of his high attainments and unblemished character, is not a light one. From its literary side, the problem is not without interest; but, in a broader sense, the result is immaterial. No matter who wrote it, the poem has been a joy for generations; and it will continue to live as long as the human heart is touched with the spirit of Christmastide. [First published in 1920]   On the net @ http://www.victoriana.com/christmas/nightbeforechristmas.htm

Selon Maria <maria_el31@...>:

>
> There was once a young man from Versaille
> he became king but I don't know why
> Although given by god
> Lewis was quite a sod
> he never finished his sausage pie
>
> Maria

His castle displayed shiny banners
His court had the very best manners
But were they cleanly? Nope!
They used perfume, not soap.
Each corner was a mess for cleaners.

--
Claire

Alfred de MUSSET (Recueil : Poésies nouvelles)

La nuit d'octobre

LE POÈTE

Le mal dont j'ai souffert s'est enfui comme un rêve.
Je n'en puis comparer le lointain souvenir
Qu'à ces brouillards légers que l'aurore soulève,
Et qu'avec la rosée on voit s'évanouir.

LA MUSE

Qu'aviez-vous donc, ô mon poète !
Et quelle est la peine secrète
Qui de moi vous a séparé ?
Hélas ! je m'en ressens encore.
Quel est donc ce mal que j'ignore
Et dont j'ai si longtemps pleuré ?

LE POÈTE

C'était un mal vulgaire et bien connu des hommes ;
Mais, lorsque nous avons quelque ennui dans le coeur,
Nous nous imaginons, pauvres fous que nous sommes,
Que personne avant nous n'a senti la douleur.

LA MUSE

Il n'est de vulgaire chagrin
Que celui d'une âme vulgaire.
Ami, que ce triste mystère
S'échappe aujourd'hui de ton sein.
Crois-moi, parle avec confiance ;
Le sévère dieu du silence
Est un des frères de la Mort ;
En se plaignant on se console,
Et quelquefois une parole
Nous a délivrés d'un remord.

LE POÈTE

S'il fallait maintenant parler de ma souffrance,
Je ne sais trop quel nom elle devrait porter,
Si c'est amour, folie, orgueil, expérience,
Ni si personne au monde en pourrait profiter.
Je veux bien toutefois t'en raconter l'histoire,
Puisque nous voilà seuls, assis près du foyer.
Prends cette lyre, approche, et laisse ma mémoire
Au son de tes accords doucement s'éveiller.

LA MUSE

Avant de me dire ta peine,
Ô poète ! en es-tu guéri ?
Songe qu'il t'en faut aujourd'hui
Parler sans amour et sans haine.
S'il te souvient que j'ai reçu
Le doux nom de consolatrice,
Ne fais pas de moi la complice
Des passions qui t'ont perdu,

LE POÈTE

Je suis si bien guéri de cette maladie,
Que j'en doute parfois lorsque j'y veux songer ;
Et quand je pense aux lieux où j'ai risqué ma vie,
J'y crois voir à ma place un visage étranger.
Muse, sois donc sans crainte ; au souffle qui t'inspire
Nous pouvons sans péril tous deux nous confier.
Il est doux de pleurer, il est doux de sourire
Au souvenir des maux qu'on pourrait oublier.

LA MUSE

Comme une mère vigilante
Au berceau d'un fils bien-aimé,
Ainsi je me penche tremblante
Sur ce coeur qui m'était fermé.
Parle, ami, - ma lyre attentive
D'une note faible et plaintive
Suit déjà l'accent de ta voix,
Et dans un rayon de lumière,
Comme une vision légère,
Passent les ombres d'autrefois.

LE POÈTE

Jours de travail ! seuls jours où j'ai vécu !
Ô trois fois chère solitude !
Dieu soit loué, j'y suis donc revenu,
À ce vieux cabinet d'étude !
Pauvre réduit, murs tant de fois déserts,
Fauteuils poudreux, lampe fidèle,
Ô mon palais, mon petit univers,
Et toi, Muse, ô jeune immortelle,
Dieu soit loué, nous allons donc chanter !
Oui, je veux vous ouvrir mon âme,
Vous saurez tout, et je vais vous conter
Le mal que peut faire une femme ;
Car c'en est une, ô mes pauvres amis
(Hélas ! vous le saviez peut-être),
C'est une femme à qui je fus soumis,
Comme le serf l'est à son maître.
Joug détesté ! c'est par là que mon coeur
Perdit sa force et sa jeunesse ; -
Et cependant, auprès de ma maîtresse,
J'avais entrevu le bonheur.
Près du ruisseau, quand nous marchions ensemble,
Le soir, sur le sable argentin,
Quand devant nous le blanc spectre du tremble
De loin nous montrait le chemin ;
Je vois encore, aux rayons de la lune,
Ce beau corps plier dans mes bras...
N'en parlons plus... - je ne prévoyais pas
Où me conduirait la Fortune.
Sans doute alors la colère des dieux
Avait besoin d'une victime ;
Car elle m'a puni comme d'un crime
D'avoir essayé d'être heureux.

LA MUSE

L'image d'un doux souvenir
Vient de s'offrir à ta pensée.
Sur la trace qu'il a laissée
Pourquoi crains-tu de revenir ?
Est-ce faire un récit fidèle
Que de renier ses beaux jours ?
Si ta fortune fut cruelle,
Jeune homme, fais du moins comme elle,
Souris à tes premiers amours.

LE POÈTE

Non, - c'est à mes malheurs que je prétends sourire.
Muse, je te l'ai dit : je veux, sans passion,
Te conter mes ennuis, mes rêves, mon délire,
Et t'en dire le temps, l'heure et l'occasion.
C'était, il m'en souvient, par une nuit d'automne,
Triste et froide, à peu près semblable à celle-ci ;
Le murmure du vent, de son bruit monotone,
Dans mon cerveau lassé berçait mon noir souci.
J'étais à la fenêtre, attendant ma maîtresse ;
Et, tout en écoutant dans cette obscurité,
Je me sentais dans l'âme une telle détresse
Qu'il me vint le soupçon d'une infidélité.
La rue où je logeais était sombre et déserte ;
Quelques ombres passaient, un falot à la main ;
Quand la bise sifflait dans la porte entr'ouverte,
On entendait de loin comme un soupir humain.
Je ne sais, à vrai dire, à quel fâcheux présage
Mon esprit inquiet alors s'abandonna.
Je rappelais en vain un reste de courage,
Et me sentis frémir lorsque l'heure sonna.
Elle ne venait pas. Seul, la tête baissée,
Je regardai longtemps les murs et le chemin, -
Et je ne t'ai pas dit quelle ardeur insensée
Cette inconstante femme allumait en mon sein ;
Je n'aimais qu'elle au monde, et vivre un jour sans elle
Me semblait un destin plus affreux que la mort.
Je me souviens pourtant qu'en cette nuit cruelle
Pour briser mon lien je fis un long effort.
Je la nommai cent fois perfide et déloyale,
Je comptai tous les maux qu'elle m'avait causés.
Hélas ! au souvenir de sa beauté fatale,
Quels maux et quels chagrins n'étaient pas apaisés !
Le jour parut enfin. - Las d'une vaine attente,
Sur le bord du balcon je m'étais assoupi ;
Je rouvris la paupière à l'aurore naissante,
Et je laissai flotter mon regard ébloui.
Tout à coup, au détour de l'étroite ruelle,
J'entends sur le gravier marcher à petit bruit...
Grand Dieu ! préservez-moi ! je l'aperçois, c'est elle ;
Elle entre. - D'où viens-tu ? Qu'as-tu fait cette nuit ?
Réponds, que me veux-tu ? qui t'amène à cette heure ?
Ce beau corps, jusqu'au jour, où s'est-il étendu ?
Tandis qu'à ce balcon, seul, je veille et je pleure,
En quel lieu, dans quel lit, à qui souriais-tu ?
Perfide ! audacieuse ! est-il encor possible
Que tu viennes offrir ta bouche à mes baisers ?
Que demandes-tu donc ? par quelle soif horrible
Oses-tu m'attirer dans tes bras épuisés ?
Va-t'en, retire-toi, spectre de ma maîtresse !
Rentre dans ton tombeau, si tu t'en es levé ;
Laisse-moi pour toujours oublier ma jeunesse,
Et, quand je pense à toi, croire que j'ai rêvé !

LA MUSE

Apaise-toi, je t'en conjure ;
Tes paroles m'ont fait frémir.
Ô mon bien-aimé ! ta blessure
Est encor prête à se rouvrir.
Hélas ! elle est donc bien profonde ?
Et les misères de ce monde
Sont si lentes à s'effacer !
Oublie, enfant, et de ton âme
Chasse le nom de cette femme,
Que je ne veux pas prononcer.

LE POÈTE

Honte à toi qui la première
M'as appris la trahison,
Et d'horreur et de colère
M'as fait perdre la raison !
Honte à toi, femme à l'oeil sombre,
Dont les funestes amours
Ont enseveli dans l'ombre
Mon printemps et mes beaux jours !
C'est ta voix, c'est ton sourire,
C'est ton regard corrupteur,
Qui m'ont appris à maudire
Jusqu'au semblant du bonheur ;
C'est ta jeunesse et tes charmes
Qui m'ont fait désespérer,
Et si je doute des larmes,
C'est que je t'ai vu pleurer.
Honte à toi, j'étais encore
Aussi simple qu'un enfant ;
Comme une fleur à l'aurore,
Mon coeur s'ouvrait en t'aimant.
Certes, ce coeur sans défense
Put sans peine être abusé ;
Mais lui laisser l'innocence
Était encor plus aisé.
Honte à toi ! tu fus la mère
De mes premières douleurs,
Et tu fis de ma paupière
Jaillir la source des pleurs !
Elle coule, sois-en sûre,
Et rien ne la tarira ;
Elle sort d'une blessure
Qui jamais ne guérira ;
Mais dans cette source amère
Du moins je me laverai,
Et j'y laisserai, j'espère,
Ton souvenir abhorré !

LA MUSE

Poète, c'est assez. Auprès d'une infidèle,
Quand ton illusion n'aurait duré qu'un jour,
N'outrage pas ce jour lorsque tu parles d'elle ;
Si tu veux être aimé, respecte ton amour.
Si l'effort est trop grand pour la faiblesse humaine
De pardonner les maux qui nous viennent d'autrui,
Épargne-toi du moins le tourment de la haine ;
À défaut du pardon, laisse venir l'oubli.
Les morts dorment en paix dans le sein de la terre :
Ainsi doivent dormir nos sentiments éteints.
Ces reliques du coeur ont aussi leur poussière ;
Sur leurs restes sacrés ne portons pas les mains.
Pourquoi, dans ce récit d'une vive souffrance,
Ne veux-tu voir qu'un rêve et qu'un amour trompé ?
Est-ce donc sans motif qu'agit la Providence
Et crois-tu donc distrait le Dieu qui t'a frappé ?
Le coup dont tu te plains t'a préservé peut-être,
Enfant ; car c'est par là que ton coeur s'est ouvert.
L'homme est un apprenti, la douleur est son maître,
Et nul ne se connaît tant qu'il n'a pas souffert.
C'est une dure loi, mais une loi suprême,
Vieille comme le monde et la fatalité,
Qu'il nous faut du malheur recevoir le baptême,
Et qu'à ce triste prix tout doit être acheté.
Les moissons pour mûrir ont besoin de rosée ;
Pour vivre et pour sentir l'homme a besoin des pleurs ;
La joie a pour symbole une plante brisée,
Humide encor de pluie et couverte de fleurs.
Ne te disais-tu pas guéri de ta folie ?
N'es-tu pas jeune, heureux, partout le bienvenu ?
Et ces plaisirs légers qui font aimer la vie,
Si tu n'avais pleuré, quel cas en ferais-tu ?
Lorsqu'au déclin du jour, assis sur la bruyère,
Avec un vieil ami tu bois en liberté,
Dis-moi, d'aussi bon coeur lèverais-tu ton verre,
Si tu n'avais senti le prix de la gaîté ?
Aimerais-tu les fleurs, les prés et la verdure,
Les sonnets de Pétrarque et le chant des oiseaux,
Michel-Ange et les arts, Shakspeare et la nature,
Si tu n'y retrouvais quelques anciens sanglots ?
Comprendrais-tu des cieux l'ineffable harmonie,
Le silence des nuits, le murmure des flots,
Si quelque part là-bas la fièvre et l'insomnie
Ne t'avaient fait songer à l'éternel repos ?
N'as-tu pas maintenant une belle maîtresse ?
Et, lorsqu'en t'endormant tu lui serres la main,
Le lointain souvenir des maux de ta jeunesse
Ne rend-il pas plus doux son sourire divin ?
N'allez-vous pas aussi vous promener ensemble
Au fond des bois fleuris, sur le sable argentin ?
Et, dans ce vert palais, le blanc spectre du tremble
Ne sait-il plus, le soir, vous montrer le chemin ?
Ne vois-tu pas alors, aux rayons de la lune,
Plier comme autrefois un beau corps dans tes bras,
Et si dans le sentier tu trouvais la Fortune,
Derrière elle, en chantant, ne marcherais-tu pas ?
De quoi te plains-tu donc ? L'immortelle espérance
S'est retrempée en toi sous la main du malheur.
Pourquoi veux-tu haïr ta jeune expérience,
Et détester un mal qui t'a rendu meilleur ?
Ô mon enfant ! plains-la, cette belle infidèle,
Qui fit couler jadis les larmes de tes yeux ;
Plains-la ! c'est une femme, et Dieu t'a fait, près d'elle,
Deviner, en souffrant, le secret des heureux.
Sa tâche fut pénible ; elle t'aimait peut-être ;
Mais le destin voulait qu'elle brisât ton coeur.
Elle savait la vie, et te l'a fait connaître ;
Une autre a recueilli le fruit de ta douleur.
Plains-la ! son triste amour a passé comme un songe ;
Elle a vu ta blessure et n'a pu la fermer.
Dans ses larmes, crois-moi, tout n'était pas mensonge.
Quand tout l'aurait été, plains-la ! tu sais aimer.

LE POÈTE

Tu dis vrai : la haine est impie,
Et c'est un frisson plein d'horreur
Quand cette vipère assoupie
Se déroule dans notre coeur.
Écoute-moi donc, ô déesse !
Et sois témoin de mon serment :
Par les yeux bleus de ma maîtresse,
Et par l'azur du firmament ;
Par cette étincelle brillante
Qui de Vénus porte le nom,
Et, comme une perle tremblante,
Scintille au loin sur l'horizon ;
Par la grandeur de la nature,
Par la bonté du Créateur,
Par la clarté tranquille et pure
De l'astre cher au voyageur.
Par les herbes de la prairie,
Par les forêts, par les prés verts,
Par la puissance de la vie,
Par la sève de l'univers,
Je te bannis de ma mémoire,
Reste d'un amour insensé,
Mystérieuse et sombre histoire
Qui dormiras dans le passé !
Et toi qui, jadis, d'une amie
Portas la forme et le doux nom,
L'instant suprême où je t'oublie
Doit être celui du pardon.
Pardonnons-nous ; - je romps le charme
Qui nous unissait devant Dieu.
Avec une dernière larme
Reçois un éternel adieu.
- Et maintenant, blonde rêveuse,
Maintenant, Muse, à nos amours !
Dis-moi quelque chanson joyeuse,
Comme au premier temps des beaux jours.
Déjà la pelouse embaumée
Sent les approches du matin ;
Viens éveiller ma bien-aimée,
Et cueillir les fleurs du jardin.
Viens voir la nature immortelle
Sortir des voiles du sommeil ;
Nous allons renaître avec elle
Au premier rayon du soleil !

There was once a young man from Versaille
he became king but I don't know why
Although given by god
Lewis was quite a sod
he never finished his sausage pie

Maria

Salut à tous,

Un petit coucou avant de re-disparaître dans les limbes.

Ce matin, j'ai entamé la lecture du "Red Notebook" de Paul Auster.
Cela démarre sur des anecdotes autobiographiques (ou péri-...) réputées vraies.
L'auteur (lui-même grand spécialiste du bobard dans ses romans et scénarios) y
affirme qu'en 1972 en Irlande, il est tombé sur un cabinet d'avocats nommé
"Argue and Phibbs".  (Fibs : bobards)

Et à propos de "fibs", je suis aussi tombée sur le blog suivant :
http://gottabook.blogspot.com/2006/04/fib.html
Cela devrait plutôt plaire aux poètes zavatarsiens et graffitiens mais comme Fib
y est l'abréviation de Fibonacci, cela peut éventuellement attirer quelques
lecteurs de plus ;-)

--
Schrödinger's Claire

>
> > There was once a man from Zansibar
> > who smoked a fat Havanna cigar
> > it was bad for his health
> > and despite of his wealth
> > He died alone in his Bentley car
> >
> > Maria
>
> There is an old man in Botswana
> Who spends his days sighing "I wanna..."
> What is his secret wish?
> It may sound outlandish:
> "...meet Maria, la prima donna!"
>
> --
> Claire

She prefers the young man from Ghana
who sold her last week his banana
five point five inches long
whether it's right or wrong
the old Eurocrats kinda wanna..

Maria

> There was once a man from Zansibar
> who smoked a fat Havanna cigar
> it was bad for his health
> and despite of his wealth
> He died alone in his Bentley car
>
> Maria

There is an old man in Botswana
Who spends his days sighing "I wanna..."
What is his secret wish?
It may sound outlandish:
"...meet Maria, la prima donna!"

--
Claire

There was once a man from Zansibar
who smoked a fat Havanna cigar
it was bad for his health
and despite of his wealth
He died alone in his Bentley car

Maria

Note: If you start off singing to the tune of that bloody olympic
torch song and then follow it up with "Hail To The Thief" uh, I
mean "Chief," you'll start to get the idea.

I LOVE being silly!!!!!

Enjoy my lovelies!

-H.I.M.

----------------------------------------

"All Hail The Next Big Thing"

All hail the next big thing.
All gather 'round as we
dance and sing it's praises.

Somehow the general taste
has headed southward.
Somehow the emperor
has gone and lost his clothes.

A lovely little PDA
you have right there my friend.

How much memory does it have?

How many Paris Hilton videos
does one person need?

And TiVO records all day long.

The unblinking camera eye
captures reality
in a pigs eye.

Yet no cameras over there.

All hail the next big thing.
Crown the idiot king.
Someone pass the dunce cap.

Somehow the ballots
ended up on a bonfire.
Where did these idiots
come from anyway?

A lovely little Blackberry
you have right there my friend.

Can you Google the truth?

How many more innocent lives
does this machine require?

Onward to Zion.

Still no truth from over there.

All Hail the idiot king.
The last stream has been poisoned
and still we can't eat money.*

Can you handle the truth?

*per Hopi prophesy

© 2006 by Howard Indian Muse / Muse Me Up! LTD.

Aho.

"Childhood"

I used to think that grown-up people chose
To have stiff backs and wrinkles round their nose,
And veins like small fat snakes on either hand,
On purpose to be grand.
Till through the banister I watched one day
My great-aunt Etty's friend who was going away,
And how her onyx beads had come unstrung.
I saw her grope to find them as they rolled;
And then I knew that she was helplessly old,
As I was helplessly young.

       -- Frances Cornford - UK

_________________________

René-François SULLY PRUDHOMME (1839-1907)
(Recueil : Les solitudes)

La vieillesse

Viennent les ans ! J'aspire à cet âge sauveur
Où mon sang coulera plus sage dans mes veines,
Où, les plaisirs pour moi n'ayant plus de saveur,
Je vivrai doucement avec mes vieilles peines.

Quand l'amour, désormais affranchi du baiser,
Ne me brûlera plus de sa fièvre mauvaise
Et n'aura plus en moi d'avenir à briser,
Que je m'en donnerai de tendresse à mon aise !

Bienheureux les enfants venus sur mon chemin !
Je saurai transporter dans les buissons l'école ;
Heureux les jeunes gens dont je prendrai la main !
S'ils aiment, je saurai comment on les console.

Et je ne dirai pas : "C'était mieux de mon temps."
Car le mieux d'autrefois c'était notre jeunesse ;
Mais je m'approcherai des âmes de vingt ans
Pour qu'un peu de chaleur en mon âme renaisse ;

Pour vieillir sans déchoir, ne jamais oublier
Ce que j'aurai senti dans l'âge où le coeur vibre,
Le beau, l'honneur, le droit qui ne sait pas plier,
Et jusques au tombeau penser en homme libre.

Et vous, oh ! Quel poignard de ma poitrine ôté,
Femmes, quand du désir il n'y sera plus traces,
Et qu'alors je pourrai ne voir dans la beauté
Que le dépôt en vous du moule pur des races !

Puissé-je ainsi m'asseoir au faîte de mes jours
Et contempler la vie, exempt enfin d'épreuves,
Comme du haut des monts on voit les grands détours
Et les plis tourmentés des routes et des fleuves !


----- Original Message -----
From: nekkid
To: Graffito@...
Sent: Monday, May 22, 2006 1:11 AM
Subject: [Graffito] margaritaceous petals are marching




les petals margarons les marchent

mais non, leurs battalions chargent

animaux dans les rues avec les humides

tonnieres en sabbats chaleurs d'été



margaritaceous petals are marching,

nay, their battalions doubletime across

the pavements, expecting summer rains in

muggy afternoons of torpid sabbat sumer....


21 May 2006 ****** nekkid






Please do not use attachments greater than 100Kb or the feature will be removed.
Merci :-)




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No virus found in this incoming message.
Checked by AVG Free Edition.
Version: 7.1.392 / Virus Database: 268.6.1/344 - Release Date: 19/05/2006







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l'actualité en temps réel.
Rendez-vous sur http://fr.yahoo.com/set

les petals margarons les marchent

mais non, leurs battalions chargent

animaux dans les rues avec les humides

tonnieres en sabbats chaleurs d'été



margaritaceous petals are marching,

nay, their battalions doubletime across

the pavements, expecting summer rains in

muggy afternoons of torpid sabbat sumer....


21 May 2006 ****** nekkid

John Fuller, in response to a competition challenge, set out to write a poem consisting only of three-letter words. And in order to add to the interest, he decided on a form in which there were three three-letter words per line, and the lines came in groups of three. The resultant poem is beautiful, but it is the only beautiful poem in this form. It is called "The Kiss":

Who are you,
You who may
Die one day,

Who saw the
Fat bee and
The owl fly

And the sad
Ivy put out
One sly arm?

My best humorous poem using a similar style is:

PAY

DAY

And it brings a smile, at least to the recipient

Amitié, Rolland

No virus found in this outgoing message.
Checked by AVG Free Edition.
Version: 7.1.392 / Virus Database: 268.5.6/339 - Release Date: 14/05/2006

Stephen Fry in The Ode Less Travelled, writes examples of the forms he
discusses:

HAIKU:
Five seven and five:
Seventeen essential oils
for warm winter nights

Clerihew :

Oscar Wilde
had his reputation defiled.
When he was led from the dock in tears
he said "We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at two years."







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Rendez-vous sur http://fr.yahoo.com/set

Mon      Hôtesse  Nous      Offre    Hot

Hôtesse     Or        Nous      Cool      Poireau,

Nous      Nous      Coltinons     Son       Corset

Offre     Cool      Son       Prose    Sort

Hot       Poireau,     Corset   Sort      Lolos



Rolland Pauzin - Vers rapportés avec symétrie diagonale










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Balade DCCCCXXII

(contre Brugaud)

Boniface, Miraumont et Poitiers
Vilebeon, Billi, ceulx de Touraine
Ont Chastelet tenu deux jours entiers
Sur les carreaulx, par la court souveraine,
Dont l'un disoit: "Dieu mette en malestraine" (i.e. En malheur en mauvaise
chance)
Cellui par qui nous faisons cy le guet !
Car Folie nous a basti ce plet
Par un homme qui a le cul trop chaut.
- Vous dites voir, ce respont un varlet :
Mauditte soit la couille de Brugaut !

Car ce qu'il gist aux femmes voluntiers
Aux samedis et en la quarantaine, (=carême)
Et que toudis en est plains ses greniers,
Le fist happer assez près de Behaingne (Bohême á Paris)
Par. les sergens, et lors crioit s'enseigne;
Maint le suy jusques en Chastelet;
Ramenez fut et prins par le colet ;
Mais l'endemain furent tuit mis en hault
Les rameneurs, ou il fait ort et let :
Mauditte soit la couille de Brugaut.

Qui ainsi fais tenir les prinsonniers!
Chastrer le fault: c'est la voie plus saine
Si ne sera plus ribaut ne putiers, (i.e. ni putiers)
Ou autrement doubt qu'il ne s'en refraingne.
Soit pardonné a la povre compaigne
Pour ceste foiz la foleur qu'elle a fet,
Et l'en face Brugaut chastrer de fet,
Car par ce point ne sera plus ribaut,
Puis qu'en  prison sont tant, oultre leur het,
Mauditte soit la couille de Brugaut!"

L'ENVOY

Princes, merci aux povres escuiers :
Delivrez les vostre grace leur fault;.
Poulz et puces ont ja quatre milliers :
Mauditte soit la couille de Brugaut !


En français moderne mais SGDG

Balade DCCCCXXII

(contre Brugaud)

Boniface, Miraumont et Poitiers
Vilebeon, Billi, ceux de Touraine
Ont tenu au Châtelet deux jours entiers
Sur les carreaux, par la cour souveraine,
Dont l'un disait: "Que Dieu mette un mauvais sort
Sur celui pour qui nous faisons le guet !
Car Folie nous a bâti ce lieu
Par un homme qui a le cul trop chaud.
- Vous dites voir, répond un valet :
Maudite soit la couille de Brugaut!

Car ce qui gît aux femmes volontier
Les samedis et au Carême
Et que tout le monde a plein ses greniers,
Le fît happer assez près de la Bohême (de Paris)
Par les sergents, et lors criait "ça t'apprendra";
Maint le suivirent jusqu'au Châtelet;
Il furent ramenés et pris par le collet;
Mais le lendemain ceux qui le ramenèrent
Furent tous mis en haut ou il fait sale et laid :
Maudite soit la couille de Brugaut!

Qui fait ainsi tenir les prisonniers!
Il faut le châtrer: c'est la voie la plus saine
Et il ne sera plus ribaud ni putier
Ou sinon on doute qu'il ne se réfrène.
Qu'il soit pardonné á la pauvre compagne
Pour cette fois la folie qu'elle a faite,
Et de le faire châtrer en fait,
Car par ce point il ne sera plus ribaud,
Puis qu'en  prison il y en a tant, contre leur grés:
"Maudite soit la couille de Brugaut!"

L'ENVOY

Princes, Ayez merci des pauvres écuyers:
Délivrez les votre grâce de leur faute;
Poux et puces ils ont déjá quatre milliers :
Maudite soit la couille de Brugaut !




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mention du vers a soie (silkworm) et de soyeux (silken) par un poete anglais au
XVIIeme siecle

Poems by Richard Crashaw
English Poet (1613-1649)

Wishes To His (Supposed) Mistress
Richard Crashaw

Whoe'er she be,
That not impossible she
That shall command my heart and me;

Where'er she lie,
Locked up from mortal eye
In shady leaves of destiny:

Till that ripe birth
Of studied fate stand forth,
And teach her fair steps to our earth;

Till that divine
Idea take a shrine
Of crystal flesh, through which to shine:

Meet you her, my wishes,
Bespeak her to my blisses,
And be ye called my absent kisses.

I wish her beauty,
That owes not all its duty
To gaudy tire, or glist'ring shoe-tie;

Something more than
Taffata or tissue can,
Or rampant feather, or rich fan;

More than the spoil
Of shop, or silkworm's toil,
Or a bought blush, or a set smile.

A face that's best
By its own beauty drest,
And can alone commend the rest:

A face made up
Out of no other shop
Than what nature's white hand sets ope.

A cheek where youth
And blood with pen of truth
Write what the reader sweetly ru'th.

A cheek where grows
More than a morning rose,
Which to no box his being owes.

Lips, where all day
A lovers kiss may play,
Yet carry nothing thence away.

Looks that oppress
Their richest tires, but dress
And clothe their simplest nakedness.

Eyes, that displaces
The neighbour diamond, and outfaces
That sunshine by their own sweet graces.

Tresses, that wear
Jewels, but to declare
How much themselves more precious are;

Whose native ray
Can tame the wanton day
Of gems that in their bright shades play.

Each ruby there,
Or pearl that dare appear,
Be its own blush, be its own tear.

A well-tamed heart,
For whose more noble smart
Love may be long choosing a dart.

Eyes, that bestow
Full quivers on Love's bow,
Yet pay less arrows than they owe.

Smiles, that can warm
The blood, yet teach a charm,
That chastity shall take no harm.

Blushes, that bin
The burnish of no sin,
Nor flames of aught too hot within.

Joyes, that confess
Virtue their mistress,
And have no other head to dress.

Fears, fond and flight
As the coy bride's when night
First does the longing lover right.

Tears, quickly fled
And vain as those are shed
For a dying maidenhead.

Days, that need borrow
No part of their good morrow
From a forspent night of sorrow.

Days, that, in spite
Of darkness, by the light
Of a clear mind are day all night.

Nights, sweet as they,
Made short by lovers' play,
Yet long by th' absence of the day.

Life, that dares send
A challenge to its end,
And when it comes say Welcome Friend.

Sydneian showers
Of sweet discourse, whose powers
Can crown old winter's head with flowers.

Soft silken hours,
Open suns, shady bowers
'Bove all; nothing within that lours.

Whate'er delight
Can make day's forehead bright,
Or give down to the wings of night.

In her whole frame
Have nature all the name,
Art and ornament the shame.

Her flattery
Picture and poesy,
Her counsel her own virtue be.

I wish her store
Of worth may leave her poor
Of wishes; and I wish-no more.

Now, if Time knows
That Her, whose radiant brows
Weave them a garland of my vows;

Her, whose just bays
My future hopes can raise,
A trophy to her present praise;

Her, that dares be
What these lines wish to see:
I seek no further, it is she.

'Tis she, and here
Lo! I unclothe and clear
My wishes' cloudy character.

May she enjoy it,
Whose merit dare apply it,
But modesty dares still deny it!

Such worth as this is
Shall fix my flying wishes,
And determine them to kisses.

Let her full glory,
My fancies, fly before ye;
Be ye my fictions, but her story.

Amities,
Rolland qui n'a pas trouvé de traductions en francais.




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Les irlandais ont changé cette année les signalements sur les routes pour passer
des miles/hour aux Km/hour mais ils leurs restent encore pas mal de choses a
apprendre sur le  systeme metrique.

Comme ils sont encore tres religieux je me demandais si une traduction de ce
poeme sur le systeme metrique international (et le debat philosophique sur la
valeur du centimetre) ne serait pas utile surtout qu'il est écrit pas un abbé
...
mais je ne suis pas sur de pouvoir tout traduire, il me semble que ces mots sont
beaucoup plus francais qu'internationaux.

Amities,
Rolland.


Le système métrique

Invités à passer la soirée
Dans l' Empyrée
Adam avec son Eve enrageaient de n'avoir,
Elle, une robe à traîne et lui son habit noir.
   Lors le serpent, rampant par là, dit d'un air digne :
" Prenez donc des feuilles de vigne. "
Et nos premiers parents transformés en tailleurs
L'un et l'autre prenant mesure,
Se pelotaient des pieds jusques à la ceinture
Et même ailleurs ;
   Mais ils ne savaient pas le système métrique
Et se trompaient toujours.
Le serpent qui, de rire, avait une colique,
Leur cria : " Mes amours !
Je veux vous suggérer encore un de mes tours:
Je suis la dix-millionnième
Part
Du quart
Du méridien terrestre lui-même,
Rigole, Adam ! Essuie, Eve, ton dernier pleur !
Je puis bien vous servir d'étalon mesureur. " ...
Et le système qu'on dit être Métrique n'ayant plus qu'à naître,
Adam voulut le mètre, Eve le centimètre !

L'abbé de Thélème. (Pseudonyme pour Guillaume Apollinaire)






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La statue de la liberté fut inaugurée le 28 Octobre 1886

The New Collossus - Emma Lazarus (1849 - 1887)

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at the sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
"Keep ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost, to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

Ma traduction:

Le Nouveau Colosse

Non comme un géant grec, dont les fers renommés
Et d'amples enjambées, conquirent mers et terres
Ici se levera sur le couché solaire
La puissante Lady dont la torche enflammée
Emprisonne la foudre et sur ces flots son nom:
Mère des exilés. Sa main - phare stellaire -
Brille d'un Bienvenue. Ses yeux commandent l'aire
Des deux villes jumelles au suspendu pont.

"Gardez votre Vieux Monde et vos pompes" dit-elle
De ses lèvres fermées, "Donnez-moi le brisé,
Demandant liberté, le gueux et le rebelle,
Et tous vos rejetés des rives surpeuplés
Envoyez sans-abris, et naufragés qui hèlent
Je garde la lumière à la porte dorée".

Note:
le poème fut écrit pour financer le projet en 1883, soit trois ans avant son
inauguration et il fut aposé a la statue en 1906.

Amities,
Rolland qui se demande vraiment si un tel poeme pourrait encore etre mis sur
n'importe quelle statue de liberte aux US ou en France ou n'importe ou en
Europe. Car qui veut les naufragés de l'immigration de nos jours? Triste.




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Limerick Happy Birthday

Maria comptait le vingt-deux septembre
Aller fêter au resto dit "Tendre
Ride" un anniversaire -
"In" vint l'an, l'adversaire,
Accrochant un I au vin neuf d'ambre.

Amitiés
Rolland




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