Quotes about mail, page 8
Internet Fête 1998 French Version 0865
Ici en France les choses avancent et grâce à Internet
Nous pouvons suivre et vivre aussi les changements de vie
Tantôt troublants, tantôt grisants, - le partage est mot qui
Est à la mode où tous ces codes parfois montent à la tête.
Regard nouveau - et pas trop tôt - tourne vers l'Internet,
Nos têtes blondes et brunes sondent une autre galaxie
Echangeant méls par modem - elles inventent jeux aussi.
Travail, hobbies, dans tous pays de nouvelles formes revêtent.
France d'abord et puis encore au monde on fait la fête
En ce printemps où la chanson est gaie et réussie,
Toujours, c'est sûr, ensemble pour s'amuser et aussi
Essayer de cerner du jeu les termes et les requêtes.
Magique est site qui invite à planète Internet.
Ici le temps s'arrête dans l'élan qui l'ennuie
Laisse de côté pour naviguer au gré de la tempête
Lyrique du désir partout de découvrir dans cet
Ensemble un sens où dans la danse on avance et on rit
Niant le noir, trouvant l'espoir, écartant les soucis.
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Internet Fête 1998 English Version 0865
Come to Planet Internet
I know today both work and play will change with Internet,
Now dark and fair exchange mail, share together, soul sincere.
Then surf here there and everywhere to web sites far and near.
Each in his way his part shall play to make this day a fête,
Ring in the mind bells all will find sing through the alphabet.
New ventures start which wide worlds chart, and so it does appear
E-Mail can bring true joy this Spring, to all who volunteer, -
Thus those apart can heart to heart converse without regret.
From hemisphere to hemisphere a global town can yet
Emerge to urge investment surge, as false fears disappear.
The tongues of man will somehow scan - Goethe, Racine and Shakespeare.
Efforts will be rewarded, - we past problems shall forget.
Needs, hopes, combine for future fine as unemployment's threat
Is overcome, leaves critics dumb, as progress from this year
New hope for scope shows - most can cope on-line, can persevere,
Enjoyment all can find to call a friend, or good news get.
Though some may find they're left behind by talk of 'netiquette', -
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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John Underhill
A score of years had come and gone
Since the Pilgrims landed on Plymouth stone,
When Captain Underhill, bearing scars
From Indian ambush and Flemish wars,
Left three-hilled Boston and wandered down,
East by north, to Cocheco town.
With Vane the younger, in counsel sweet,
He had sat at Anna Hutchinson's feet,
And, when the bolt of banishment fell
On the head of his saintly oracle,
He had shared her ill as her good report,
And braved the wrath of the General Court.
He shook from his feet as he rode away
The dust of the Massachusetts Bay.
The world might bless and the world might ban,
What did it matter the perfect man,
To whom the freedom of earth was given,
Proof against sin, and sure of heaven?
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poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Jamie Telfer
It fell about the Martinmas tyde,
When our Border steeds get corn and hay
The captain of Bewcastle hath bound him to ryde,
And he's ower to Tividale to drive a prey.
The first ae guide that they met wi',
It was high up Hardhaughswire;
The second guide that we met wi',
It was laigh down in Borthwick water.
'What tidings, what tidings, my trusty guide?'
'Nae tidings, nae tidings, I hae to thee;
But, gin ye'll gae to the fair Dodhead,
Mony a cow's cauf I'll let thee see.'
And whan they cam to the fair Dodhead,
Right hastily they clam the peel;
They loosed the kye out, ane and a',
And ranshackled the house right weel.
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poem by Andrew Lang
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The Folk-Mote By The River
It was up in the morn we rose betimes
From the hall-floor hard by the row of limes.
It was but John the Red and I,
And we were the brethren of Gregory;
And Gregory the Wright was one
Of the valiant men beneath the sun,
And what he bade us that we did
For ne’er he kept his counsel hid.
So out we went, and the clattering latch
Woke up the swallows under the thatch.
It was dark in the porch, but our scythes we felt,
And thrust the whetstone under the belt.
Through the cold garden boughs we went
Where the tumbling roses shed their scent.
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poem by William Morris
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The Lady Of Provence
'Courage was cast about her like a dress
Of solemn comeliness,
A gathered mind and an untroubled face
Did give her dangers grace.' ~ Donne.
The war-note of the Saracen
Was on the winds of France;
It had stilled the harp of the Troubadour,
And the clash of the tourney's lance.
The sounds of the sea, and the sounds of the night,
And the hollow echoes of charge and flight,
Were around Clotilde, as she knelt to pray
In a chapel where the mighty lay,
On the old Provencal shore;
Many a Chatillon beneath,
Unstirred by the ringing trumpet's breath,
His shroud of armour wore.
And the glimpses of moonlight that went and came
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poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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The Wrath Of Loyalty
OCTOBER! tho' thy rugged brow,
No vivid wreaths entwine;
Tho' not for thee the zephyr blow,
Tho' not for thee the blossom glow,
Or skies unclouded shine:
Tho' o'er thy dark and russet vest
No rainbow-colors play;
Tho' dim thine eye, tho' cold thy breast,
Yet be thou honor'd, be thou blest,
E'en more than youthful May!
No vernal suns illume thy day,
Fair star of joy! then brighter beam!
No forest-notes attend thy way,
Then strike the lyre, then make the lay,
To one inspiring theme!
Thy steps may blight the roseate plain,
Thy winds may chill the vale;
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poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Why Dont You Write Me
(simon)
Why dont you write me
Im out in the jungle
Im hungry to hear you
Send me a card
I am waiting so hard to be near you
Something is wrong and I know I got a feelin
Maybe Im lost but I cant make the cost of the airfare
Tell me why, tell me why
Why dont you write me
A letter would brighten my loneliest evening
Mail it today if its only to say
That youre leaving me
Why dont you write
Monday morning sitting in the sun
Hopin and wishin that the mail would come
Tuesday I never got a word
Wednesday,, thursday aint no sign
Drank a half a bottle of iodine
Friday, woe is me
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song performed by Olivia Newton-John
Added by Lucian Velea
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Antara
How many singers before me! Are there yet songs unsung?
Dost thou, my sad soul, remember where was her dwellingplace?
Tents in Jiwá, the fair wádi, speak ye to me of her.
Fair house of 'Abla my true love, blessing and joy to thee!
Doubting I paused in the pastures, seeking her camel--tracks,
high on my swift--trotting nága tall as a citadel,
Weaving a dream of the past days, days when she dwelt in them,
'Abla, my true love, in Házzen, Sammán, Mutathéllemi.
There on the sand lay the hearth--stones, black in their emptiness,
desolate more for the loved ones fled with Om Héythami,
Fled to the land of the lions, roarers importunate.
Daily my quest of thee darkens, daughter of Mákhrami.
Truly at first sight I loved her, I who had slain her kin,
ay, by the life ofthy father, not in inconstancy.
Love, thou hast taken possession. Deem it not otherwise.
Thou in my heart art the first one, first in nobility.
How shall I win to her people? Far in Anéyzateyn
feed they their flocks in the Spring--time, we in the Gháïlem.
Yet it was thou, my beloved, willed we should sunder thus,
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poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Will The Circle Be Unbroken?
(Simon)
Why don\\\\\\\'t you write me
I\\\\\\\'m out in the jungle
I\\\\\\\'m hungry to hear you
Send me a card
I am waiting so hard to be near you
Something is wrong and I know I got a feelin\\\\\\\'
Maybe I\\\\\\\'m lost but I can\\\\\\\'t make the cost of the airfare
Tell me why, tell me why
Why don\\\\\\\'t you write me
A letter would brighten my loneliest evening
Mail it today if it\\\\\\\'s only to say
That you\\\\\\\'re leaving me
Why don\\\\\\\'t you write
Monday morning sitting in the sun
Hopin\\\\\\\' and wishin\\\\\\\' that the mail would come
Tuesday I never got a word
Wednesday,, Thursday ain\\\\\\\'t no sign
Drank a half a bottle of iodine
Friday, woe is me
[...] Read more
song performed by Olivia Newton-John
Added by Lucian Velea
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