Si tôt que j'eus quitté les délices du port de Claude MALLEVILLE (1596-1647)

Si tôt que j'eus quitté les délices du port de Claude MALLEVILLE (1596-1647)
Si tôt que j'eus quitté les délices du port
Et d'un oeil affligé pris congé du rivage,
J'appris que de la mer l'infidèle passage
Était peu différent de celui de la mort.

Les ondes contre moi firent un tel effort
Et d'un si rude choc vainquirent mon courage
Qu'au moindre de mes maux, si j'eusse fait naufrage,
J'en eusse rendu grâce à la bonté du sort.

A la fin je devins aussi froid que la glace,
La nature aux douleurs abandonna la place
Et mon coeur demeura sans vigueur et sans pouls.

Je perdis la clarté, mes lèvres furent closes
Et mon esprit, Olympe, oubliait toutes choses
S'il ne se fût alors ressouvenu de vous.
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# Posté le lundi 20 juillet 2009 14:42

Modifié le lundi 20 juillet 2009 15:08

Citation de Paul Claudel

Citation de Paul Claudel
Photo prise dans le parc du Château Gilles de Trèves où en 1905 Paul Claudel y séjourna et sous le grand tulipier de Virginie (où cette photo a été prise) y écrivit son drame "Le partage de Midi".


«Est-ce que le but de la vie est de vivre?» Citation de Paul Claudel
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# Posté le dimanche 07 juin 2009 15:50

L'escargot de Alain HANNECART

L'escargot de Alain HANNECART

lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllMlllllllllllllllllllllllTllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllMllllllllllllllllllTllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
llllllllllllllLllllllllllMllllllllllllllllllRetiré sans frontière je vis seul sans amillll_llllllTlllllLllllllllllllllllllllllllll
llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllPensant en philosophe je me nourris de vert,lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllEt méditant aux causes profondes de l'univers,lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
lllllllllllLlllllllllllllllllMllllllllllJe construis ma demeure autour de mes écrits.lllllKllllllllllTllllllllllllllllllllll
llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllMlllllllllllllllllllllllTlllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllMlllllllllllllllllllllllTlllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllMlllllllllllllllllllllllTlllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllTllllPour mâcher des salades ou réciter des verslllllllllllllllMlllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
llllllllllllllllMlllllllMllllTllllllllJ'allonge mes antennes et sors de ma coquillellllKllTllllllMlllllllllllllllllllllllll
lllllllllllllllllllllllllMlllllllllllllJe chemine lentement sur les chemins de terrellllllllllMllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
lllllMlllMlllLllLllllMlllMllMllllQuand tout va de travers je ferme l'écoutillelllllTlMllLlllLllllTlllllKllllMlllll
llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllMlllllllllllllllllllllllTlllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllMlllllllllllllllllllllllTlllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllMlllllllllllllllllllllllTlllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllGonflée comme un nuage bordée comme une voilelllllllMllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
llllllllllllllMlllllllKlllllTlllllComme les vagues de la mer ma coquille s'enroulellllllllllllMlllMllllllllMllllllllll
lllllllllllllllllMlllllllllllllllllllllJe vis dedans comme dans le ventre d'un cargollllllllMllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllMlllllllllllllllllllllllTlllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllMlllllllllllllllllllllllTlllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllMlllllllllllllllllllllllTlllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllLaissant dans mon sillage une traînée d'argentlllllllllllllllllMlllllllllllllllllllllllll
llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllJe crains à chaque assaut du soleil et du ventllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
lllllllllllllllllllllllllllMllMlllllQue ma coque se fende et que ma vie s'écroulellllllllMllllllllllllllllllllllTlllllllllll
llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllMlllllllllllllllllllllllTlllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllMlllllllllllllllllllllllTlllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
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# Posté le samedi 11 avril 2009 15:23

Modifié le samedi 11 avril 2009 17:02

Jardins de novembre de Louis CHADOURNE (1890-1925) Recueil : Accords

Jardins de novembre de Louis CHADOURNE (1890-1925) Recueil : Accords

lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
lllllllllllllLa brume s'échevèle au détour des allées,llllllllllllll
lllllllllllllUn souvenir épars s'attarde et se recueille,llllllllll"lll
lllllllllllll.Il flotte une douceur de choses en alléesllllllll-""llll
ll"Un songe glisse en nous, comme un pas sur les feuilles.lll
lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll

lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
lllll"llLes jardins de Novembre accueillent vos amours,llll"lll
lllllllllllllllÔ jeunesse pensive, Ô saison dissolvante,lllllllllllll
lllll"lllLes grands jardins mélancoliques et qui sententlll"lllll
llll"llllLa fin, la pluie - odeurs humides de l'air lourd,llll"llllll
lllllllllllllDe choses mortes qui retournent à la terre.llllllllllllll
lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll

lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
llll"lllllIris mauves aux parfums âcres, aux tiges pâles,llllllllll
llllllll"lllllPloyés un peu, et qui se fanent, solitaires,llll"llllllll
lll"lllllEt laissent tristement pendre leurs longs pétalesl"lllllll
ll"lTransparents, trop veinés, trop fins - comme une lèvrelllll
lllllllllllllDont les baisers ont bu le sang et la tiédeurlllllll"llll
lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll

lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
lllllllCherche encore une bouche où poser sa langueur.lllllll
lllllllLe grand jardin brumeux sommeille. Sourde fièvrelllllll
lllllllllllllllÔ parfums trop aigus des iris et des roseslllllllllllllll
llllllllllFlétris - parfums et mort - serre chaude d'odeurs.llll"lll
lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll

lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
llllllllllTout l'univers mourant qui s'épuise en senteursllllllllll
lllllll"llllEt puis dans la tristesse odorante des chosesllllllllllll
llllllll"lllEffeuillant, inclinant, chaque fleur du jardinllllllllllll
lllllll"llllD'un battement furtif, égal et doux, se posell"llllllllll
lllllllllll"llllllL'aile silencieuse et lasse du déclin.lllll"llllllllllll
lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
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# Posté le mardi 07 avril 2009 12:09

Modifié le mercredi 08 avril 2009 16:07

Est-ce que les oiseaux se cachent pour mourir ? de François COPPÉE (1842-1908) (Recueil : Promenades et Intérieurs.)

Est-ce que les oiseaux se cachent pour mourir ? de François COPPÉE (1842-1908) (Recueil : Promenades et Intérieurs.)

lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
lllllllllllllLe soir, au coin du feu, j'ai pensé bien des foislllllllllllll
lllllllllllllÀ la mort d'un oiseau, quelque part, dans les bois.lllllllllll
lllllllllllllllPendant les tristes jours de l'hiver monotone,llllllllllllll
lllllllllllllLes pauvres nids déserts, les nids qu'on abandonne,lllllllllll
llllllllllllllllSe balancent au vent sur un ciel gris de fer.llllllllllllll
lllllllllllllllOh ! comme les oiseaux doivent mourir l'hiver !lllllllllllll
llllllllllllllPourtant, lorsque viendra le temps des violettes,llllllllllll
llllllllllllllNous ne trouverons pas leurs délicats squeletteslllllllllllll
lllllllllllllllllDans le gazon d'avril, où nous irons courir.llllllllllllll
lllllllllllllllEst-ce que les oiseaux se cachent pour mourir ?lllllllllllll
lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
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# Posté le mercredi 04 mars 2009 14:05

Modifié le mercredi 04 mars 2009 14:33