Notre temps n'est rien plus qu'un ombrage qui passe.
Car l'espoir des vaincus est de n'espérer point.
Et le soleil voyant le spectacle nouveau À regret éleva son pâle front des ondes, Transi de se mirer en nos larmes profondes.
Combien des maux passés douce est la souvenance.
Comme un nageur venant du profond de son plonge, Tous sortent de la mort comme l'on sort d'un songe.
Une rose d'automne est plus qu'une autre exquise.
L'homme est en proie à l'homme, un loup à son pareil.
© 2026 My French LLC
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