Je suis le Ténébreux, — le Veuf, — l'Inconsolé, Le Prince d'Aquitaine à la tour abolie : Ma seule Étoile est morte, — et mon luth constellé Porte le Soleil noir de la Mélancolie.
Je pense à toi, Myrtho, divine enchanteresse…
La connais-tu, Dafné, cette ancienne romance.
Les illusions tombent l'une après l'autre, comme les écorces d'un fruit, et le fruit, c'est l'expérience. Sa saveur est amère.
Il voulait tout savoir mais il n'a rien connu.
Ô Mort, où est ta victoire ?
Le vrai, c'est le faux — du moins en art et en poésie.
© 2026 My French LLC
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