Quotes about french, page 6
Oboe Me Over
Strings of violins,
Can mean so many things.
To a heart,
Missing...
The kissing,
Of a touch dipped in romance.
Strings of violins,
Gently bowed by those who know...
The missing,
And touch that's kissed,
By one who seeks romance.
Oboe me over,
With French horns caressing my need.
Sweeping me up into ecstasy.
Enthralled am I,
And timpanied.
Oboe me over,
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Air Fizzles
Oh joy, rejoice, oh sing my soul, tomorrow
a French class with Marali in charge, her
personality bright, she shines like a star
her enthusiasm for life infectious, she is
the essence of inspiration and conveys a
sense of wonder about the language she
teaches, the air fizzles while she is around
her excitement knows no bounds - firing
my imagination and leaving enough space
in which I can wonder and enjoy- I might
be slow in class, talking with difficulty
Drilling in basic grammar and analysing
language structure, I hope we shall follow
the rhythm of the language as it rises and
falls, the melody therein, every sentence
ending on a rising curve, indicative of the
questioning French soul, the deep mistrust
of benevolence infecting the typical French
mood setting the tone for their complaints
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poem by Margaret Alice Second
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The French Wars
Napoleonic
The boats of Newhaven and Folkestone and Dover
To Dieppe and Boulogne and to Calais cross over;
And in each of those runs there is not a square yard
Where the English and French haven't fought and fought hard!
If the ships that were sunk could be floated once more,
They'd stretch like a raft from the shore to the shore,
And we'd see, as we crossed, every pattern and plan
Of ship that was built since sea-fighting began.
There'd be biremes and brigantines, cutters and sloops,
Cogs, carracks and galleons with gay gilded poops--
Hoys, caravels, ketches, corvettes and the rest,
As thick as regattas, from Ramsgate to Brest.
But the galley's of Caesar, the squadrons of Sluys,
And Nelson's crack frigates are hid from our eyes,
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poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Fun in its Wanderings
Back to basics counting in French, listening
to recordings of voices counting me to death,
dug up a 5th edition of Basic Conversational
French, p 66, Cardinal numbers, looked at the
keys - 11 to 16 with ZE - onze douze treize
30 to 60 with TE - trente quarante cinquante
70 is sixty-ten = soixante-dix,80 is 4 times 20
= quatre-vingts,90 is 4 times 20 plus ten =
quatre-vingt-dix - just seeing this gives me the
shivers, reading aloud to get used to the sound
is awful, a freshman at university sitting with
my book repeating this endlessly to do Dictée
Today the object is teaching diplomatic staff
to get around in France but I'm not going any-
where, learning this only serves to pass the
time, I'm better off reading Mars and Venus
by John Gray explaining why men and women
can't get along, explaining the idea of martyrs
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poem by Margaret Alice Second
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The doll's wooing
The little French doll was a dear little doll
Tricked out in the sweetest of dresses;
Her eyes were of hue
A most delicate blue
And dark as the night were her tresses;
Her dear little mouth was fluted and red,
And this little French doll was so very well bred
That whenever accosted her little mouth said
"Mamma! mamma!"
The stockinet doll, with one arm and one leg,
Had once been a handsome young fellow;
But now he appeared
Rather frowzy and bleared
In his torn regimentals of yellow;
Yet his heart gave a curious thump as he lay
In the little toy cart near the window one day
And heard the sweet voice of that French dolly say:
"Mamma! mamma!"
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poem by Eugene Field
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Influenced By Europeans
As An American I can say,
I've been influenced by Europeans.
I grew up with Jews and Italians,
Most of my young life.
My high school had a mixture,
Of Russians, Portuguese, French
And Spaniards.
Who would find me humorous...
When the teacher saw my hand raised,
To sometimes ignore.
Until I made outbursts.
Expecting from her more.
I took two years of French.
And had friends of several races.
Then one day all of that was changed.
When the city I now live in...
Became a place for bigoted racists.
Oh there may be many who will try to deny what I say.
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Napoleon Bonaparte: Coalition Wars Of Conquest
Napoleon robust strength spirit complexion dark
fine chestnut hair dark reddish blond brown black
as aged eyes handsome blue reflected incredibly
various emotions eyebrows eyelashes much darker
forehead high board nose proportioned shaped straight
striking features quick searching eyes animated abrupt
gestures proclaimed ardent soul serious deep thinker
Napoleon Bonaparte profile prominent
looks expression earnest powerful a military
political leader in latter stages of French Revolution
born in Corsica parents lesser noble Italian ancestry
trained as an artillery officer in mainland France
a paradox 5 foot 5-7 inches British 5 foot 2 in French
powdered hair cut in peculiar square fashion below ears
fell down to shoulders closely buttoned up straight coat
decorated by narrow gold embroidery tri-coloured plume hat
close-fitting trousers boots reaching to the calf trimmed
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poem by Terence George Craddock
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Just 22 miles of water
‘To understand all
is to forgive all ‘ –
that’s one French saying
that doesn’t seem to have
crossed the few miles of
‘The English Channel’, or
the Straits of Dover or
‘The Sleeve’ or the
‘Passage of Calais’ or
however the French translates –
with the Normans; so
perhaps they left it behind
at the Conquest along with
Armagnac and crepes and
their blonde mistresses
and never went back for it
like I wonder if that blunt
English saying,
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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A War of Words
There is a war here;
a war among the Words
where Meaning itself
is often
wounded or murdered,
taken from the Dictionary Battlefield
and buried in Arcane Cemetery,
or kept alive
twisted to opposite intents
or degraded,
or marginalized
or worse
sanitized by the French.
There is a War going on
at all times-
the War of the Words.
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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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The Old Superb
The wind was rising easterly, the morning sky was blue,
The Straits before us opened wide and free;
We looked towards the Admiral, where high the Peter flew,
And all our hearts were dancing like the sea.
'The French are gone to Martinique with four and twenty sail!
The Old _Superb_ is old and foul and slow,
But the French are gone to Martinique, and Nelson's on the trail.
And where he goes the Old _Superb_ must go!'
So Westward ho! for Trinidad, and Eastward ho! for Spain,
And 'Ship ahoy!' a hundred times a day;
Round the world if need be, and round the world again,
With a lame duck lagging all the way.
The Old _Superb_ was barnacled and green as grass below,
Her sticks were only fit for stirring grog;
The pride of all her midshipmen was silent long ago,
And long ago they ceased to heave the log.
Four year out from home she was, and ne'er a week in port,
And nothing save the guns aboard her bright;
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poem by Sir Henry Newbolt
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