Notre temps n'est rien plus qu'un ombrage qui passe.
L'air n'est plus que rayons tant il est semé d'anges.
Car l'espoir des vaincus est de n'espérer point.
Mes sens n'ont plus de sens, l'esprit de moi s'envole, Le cœur ravi se tait, ma bouche est sans parole : Tout meurt, l'âme s'enfuit, et reprenant son lieu Extatique se pâme au giron de son Dieu.
Ce siècle, autre en ses mœurs, demande un autre style.
Quand la vérité met le poignard à la gorge, il faut baiser sa main blanche, quoique tachée de notre sang.
Retire-toi dans toi, parais moins, et sois plus.
© 2026 My French LLC
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