Tournez, tournez, bons chevaux de bois, Tournez cent tours, tournez mille tours.
Pas la Couleur, rien que la nuance.
Écoutez la chanson bien douce Qui ne pleure que pour vous plaire.
Non. Il fut gallican, ce siècle*, et janséniste !
Votre âme est un paysage choisi Que vont charmant masques et bergamasques […].
Je suis l'Empire à la fin de la décadence, Qui regarde passer les grands Barbares blancs En composant des acrostiches indolents D'un style d'or où la langueur du soleil danse.
— Qu'as-tu fait, ô toi que voilà Pleurant sans cesse, Dis, qu'as-tu fait, toi que voilà De ta jeunesse ?
© 2026 My French LLC
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