Quand j\u2019ai grond\u00e9 mon fils je me cache et je pleure.
\nQui suis-je, pour punir, moi, roseau devant Dieu ;
\nPour devancer le temps qui nous gronde \u00e0 toute heure,
\nEt crie \u00e0 tous, prends garde ; il faudra dire adieu !<\/p>\n
Mourir avec le poids d\u2019une parole am\u00e8re ;
\nD\u2019une larme d\u2019enfant que l\u2019on a fait couler ;
\nQue l\u2019on sent sur son c\u0153ur incessamment rouler ;
\nEst-ce donc pour ce droit que l\u2019on veut \u00eatre m\u00e8re ?<\/p>\n
Est-ce donc l\u00e0 le prix des immenses douleurs,
\nDont nous avons pay\u00e9 leur pr\u00e9sence ador\u00e9e ?
\nDe ce pas sur la tombe encor toute navr\u00e9e,
\nDieu ! laissez-nous donc vivre et respirer nos fleurs !<\/p>\n
Laissez-nous contempler \u00e0 deux genoux la tige,
\nQui veut se lever seule et fr\u00e9mit d\u2019ob\u00e9ir ;
\nQui veut sa libert\u00e9, son plaisir, doux vertige.
\nTout ce qui na\u00eet, mon Dieu ! tend ses bras au plaisir.<\/p>\n
Laissez-nous seulement, ardentes sentinelles,
\n\u00c9carter leurs dangers qu\u2019ils aiment, si petits ;
\nSi forts \u00e0 repousser nos forces maternelles,
\nDe la fiert\u00e9 de l\u2019homme innocens apprentis.<\/p>\n
Purifiez un peu ce monde o\u00f9 chaque haleine,
\n\u00c0 l\u2019entour de nos fruits souffle un air plein de feu ;
\nPr\u00e9servez le lait pur dont leur \u00e2me \u00e9tait pleine ;
\nAlors nous guiderons l\u2019ange par un cheveu.<\/p>\n
Beaux anges mutin\u00e9s qui bravez nos tendresses,
\nDont les jours, dont les nuits ti\u00e8des de nos caresses,
\nLoin de vos nids plumeux br\u00fblent de s\u2019envoler ;
\nQui les fera plus doux pour vous en consoler ?<\/p>\n
La m\u00e8re, n\u2019est-ce pas un long baiser de l\u2019\u00e2me ?
\nUn baiser qui jamais ne dit non ni demain ?
\nFaut-il ses jours ? Seigneur ! les voil\u00e0 dans sa main :
\nPrenez-les pour l\u2019enfant de cette heureuse femme.<\/p>\n
Enfant ! mot qui peut dire : amour ! ciel ! ou martyre !
\nCouronne des berceaux ! aur\u00e9ole d\u2019\u00e9pouse !
\nSaint orgueil ! n\u0153ud du sang, \u00e9ternit\u00e9 jalouse,
\nDieu vous fait trop de pleurs pour vous an\u00e9antir.<\/p>\n
C\u2019est notre \u00e2me en dehors, en robe d\u2019innocence,
\nH\u00e9las ! comme la vit ma m\u00e8re \u00e0 ma naissance :
\nEt si je la contemple avec d\u2019humides yeux,
\nC\u2019est que la terre est triste et que l\u2019\u00e2me est des cieux !<\/p>\n
\u00d4 femmes ! aimez-vous par vos secrets de larmes ;
\nPar vos devoirs sans bruit o\u00f9 s\u2019effeuillent vos charmes ;
\nApr\u00e8s vos jours d\u2019encens dont j\u2019ai bu la douceur,
\nQuand vous aurez souffert, appelez-moi : ma s\u0153ur !<\/p>\n","protected":false},"parent":0,"template":"","meta":{"inline_featured_image":false,"site-sidebar-layout":"default","site-content-layout":"","ast-site-content-layout":"default","site-content-style":"default","site-sidebar-style":"default","ast-global-header-display":"","ast-banner-title-visibility":"","ast-main-header-display":"","ast-hfb-above-header-display":"","ast-hfb-below-header-display":"","ast-hfb-mobile-header-display":"","site-post-title":"","ast-breadcrumbs-content":"","ast-featured-img":"","footer-sml-layout":"","ast-disable-related-posts":"","theme-transparent-header-meta":"default","adv-header-id-meta":"","stick-header-meta":"default","header-above-stick-meta":"","header-main-stick-meta":"","header-below-stick-meta":"","astra-migrate-meta-layouts":"set","ast-page-background-enabled":"default","ast-page-background-meta":{"desktop":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-4)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"tablet":{"background-color":"","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"mobile":{"background-color":"","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""}},"ast-content-background-meta":{"desktop":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-5)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"tablet":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-5)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"mobile":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-5)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""}}},"annee":[535],"poems-book":[541],"poemes-theme":[],"poete":[208],"class_list":["post-11568","poemes","type-poemes","status-publish","hentry","annee-535","poems-book-pauvres-fleurs","poete-marceline-desbordes-valmore"],"yoast_head":"\n