Le ciel est, par-dessus le toit, Si bleu, si calme !
De la musique avant toute chose, Et pour cela préfère l'Impair, Plus vague et plus soluble dans l'air, Sans rien en lui qui pèse ou qui pose.
Je suis l'Empire à la fin de la décadence, Qui regarde passer les grands Barbares blancs En composant des acrostiches indolents D'un style d'or où la langueur du soleil danse.
Non. Il fut gallican, ce siècle*, et janséniste !
Ah, quand refleuriront les roses de septembre !
Ah, quand refleuriront les roses de septembre !
Rien de plus cher que la chanson grise Où l'Indécis au Précis se joint.
© 2026 My French LLC
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