Comme un nageur venant du profond de son plonge, Tous sortent de la mort comme l'on sort d'un songe.
Ce siècle, autre en ses mœurs, demande un autre style.
Car l'espoir des vaincus est de n'espérer point.
Car l'espoir des vaincus est de n'espérer point.
L'air n'est plus que rayons tant il est semé d'anges.
Une rose d'automne est plus qu'une autre exquise.
Cités ivres de sang, et encore altérées, Qui avez soif de sang, et de sang enivrées, Vous sentirez de Dieu l'épouvantable main : Vos terres seront feu, et votre ciel d'airain.
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