Il est des parfums frais comme des chairs d'enfants, Doux comme les hautbois, verts comme les prairies, — Et d'autres, corrompus, riches et triomphants.
Plus on veut, mieux on veut.
Ce qui est créé par l'esprit est plus vivant que la matière.
Car c'est enfin, Seigneur, le meilleur témoignage Que nous puissions donner de notre dignité, Que cet ardent sanglot qui roule d'âge en âge Et vient mourir au bord de votre éternité !
Le beau est toujours bizarre.
Beauté forte à genoux devant la beauté frêle !
La Bêtise au front de taureau.
© 2026 My French LLC
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