Il faut être absolument moderne.
Comme je descendais des Fleuves impassibles, Je ne me sentis plus guidé par les haleurs : Des Peaux-Rouges criards les avaient pris pour cibles, Les ayant cloués nus aux poteaux de couleurs.
On n'est pas sérieux, quand on a dix-sept ans.
Ô Mort mystérieuse, ô sœur de charité !
La Poésie ne rythmera plus l'action ; elle sera en avant.
Mais, vrai, j'ai trop pleuré ! Les Aubes sont navrantes.
Ah ! Que le temps vienne Où les cœurs s'éprennent.
© 2026 My French LLC
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