Rien de plus cher que la chanson grise Où l'Indécis au Précis se joint.
Pas la Couleur, rien que la nuance.
C'est bien la pire peine De ne savoir pourquoi Sans amour et sans haine Mon cœur a tant de peine !
Voici des fruits, des fleurs, des feuilles et des branches Et puis voici mon cœur, qui ne bat que pour vous.
Non. Il fut gallican, ce siècle*, et janséniste !
Les sanglots longs Des violons De l'automne Blessent mon cœur D'une langueur Monotone.
Votre âme est un paysage choisi Que vont charmant masques et bergamasques […].
© 2026 My French LLC
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