HelenaPF's photos with the keyword: héroïnes

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RZCZ1tbLw6s

www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wbm6lMw2sUY Auprès d'un torrent Ophélie cueillait, tout en suivant le bord, dans sa douce et tendre folie, des pervenches, des boutons d'or, des iris aux couleurs d'opale, et de ces fleurs d'un rose pâle qu'on appelle des doigts de mort. Puis, élevant sur ses mains blanches les riants trésors du matin, elle les suspendait aux branches, aux branches d'un saule voisin. Mais trop faible le rameau plie, se brise, et la pauvre Ophélie tombe, sa guirlande à la main. Quelques instants sa robe enflée la tint encor sur le courant et, comme une voile gonflée, elle flottait toujours chantant, chantant quelque vieille ballade, chantant ainsi qu'une naïade née au milieu de ce torrent. Mais cette étrange mélodie passa, rapide comme un son. Par les flots la robe alourdie bientôt dans l'abîme profond entraîna la pauvre insensée, laissant à peine commencée sa mélodieuse chanson. Beside a brook, Ophelia gathered along the water's bank, in her sweet and gentle madness, periwinkles, buttercups, opal-tinted irises, and those pale purples called dead men's fingers. Then, raising up in her white hands the morning's laughing trophies, she hung them on the branches, the branches of a nearby willow. But the bough, too fragile, bends, breaks, and poor Ophelia falls, the garland in her hand. Her dress, spread wide, bore her on the water awhile, and like an outstretched sail she floated, still singing, singing some old ballad, singing like a naiad born amidst the stream. But this strange melody died, fleeting as a snatch of sound. Her garment, heavy with water, soon into the depths dragged the poor distracted girl, leaving her melodious song hardly yet begun.

To be, or not to be: that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them. To die: to sleep; No more; and by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep; To sleep: perchance to dream: aye, there's the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause: there's the respect That makes calamity of so long life; For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscover'd country from whose bourn No traveler returns, puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pith and moment With this regard their currents turn awry And lose the name of action.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=A23PDwGcsbk&feature=related

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www.youtube.com/watch?v=MAlC568USxM

www.youtube.com/watch?v=fDWHNfzW9x8

http://www.musicme.com/Amici-Forever/albums/Defined-0828767093420.html?play=09

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PF5FhF_t5i4&feature=related

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