J\u2019esp\u00e8re de mourir d\u2019une mort lente et forte,
\nQue mon esprit verra doucement approcher
\nComme on voit une s\u0153ur entreb\u00e2iller la porte,
\nQui sourit simplement et qui vient vous chercher.<\/p>\n
Je lui dirai : Venez, ch\u00e8re mort, je vous aime,
\nApr\u00e8s mes longs travaux, voici vos nobles jeux.
\nJ\u2019ai longtemps refus\u00e9 votre secours supr\u00eame,
\nCar si le corps est las, l\u2019esprit est courageux.<\/p>\n
Mais venez, d\u00e9livrez un courage qui s\u2019use,
\nAbr\u00e9gez le combat, rendez \u00e0 l\u2019univers
\nL\u2019immense po\u00e9sie embu\u00e9e et confuse
\nDont mon \u00e2me et mon corps ont si longtemps souffert !<\/p>\n
Les torrents des rochers, le sable blond des rives,
\nLes vaisseaux balanc\u00e9s, l\u2019Automne dans les bois,
\nLes b\u00eates des for\u00eats, surprises et captives,
\nM\u00e9ditaient dans mon c\u0153ur et g\u00e9missaient en moi !<\/p>\n
\u00d4 mort, laissez-les fuir vers la for\u00eat puissante,
\nCes fauves compagnons de mon silence ardent !
\nQue leur native ardeur, f\u00e9roce et caressante,
\nPeuple la chaude nuit d\u2019un murmure obs\u00e9dant.<\/p>\n
Ce n\u2019\u00e9tait pas mon droit de garder dans mon \u00eatre
\nUn aspect plus divin de la cr\u00e9ation ;
\nDe savoir tout aimer, de pouvoir tout conna\u00eetre
\nPar les secrets chemins de l\u2019inspiration !<\/p>\n
Ce n\u2019\u00e9tait pas mon droit, aussi la destin\u00e9e,
\nComme un guerrier sournois, chaque jour, chaque nuit,
\nAttaquait de sa main habile et forcen\u00e9e
\nLe sublime butin qui me comble et me nuit.<\/p>\n
Mais venez, ch\u00e8re mort ; mon \u00e2me vous appelle,
\nAsseyez-vous ici et donnez-moi la main.
\nQue votre bras soutienne un front longtemps rebelle,
\nEt recueille la voix du plus las des humains :<\/p>\n
\u2014 Prenez ces yeux, emplis de vastes paysages,
\nQui n\u2019ont jamais bien vu l\u2019exact et le r\u00e9el,
\nEt qui, toujours troubl\u00e9s par de changeants visages,
\nOnt vers\u00e9 plus de pleurs que la mer n\u2019a de sel.<\/p>\n
Prenez ce c\u0153ur puissant qu\u2019un faible corps opprime,
\nEt qui, heurtant sans fin ses \u00e9troites parois,
\nEut l\u2019attrait du divin et le pouvoir des cimes,
\nEt s\u2019\u00e9levait aux cieux comme la pierre choit.<\/p>\n
Ah ! vraiment le tombeau qui d\u00e9vore et qui ronge,
\nLe sol, tout compos\u00e9 d\u2019\u00e9tranges corrosifs,
\nL\u2019ombre fade et mouill\u00e9e o\u00f9 les racines plongent,
\nLe nid de la corneille au noir sommet des ifs,<\/p>\n
Pourront-ils m\u2019accorder cette paix sans seconde,
\nSommeil que mon labeur tenace a m\u00e9rit\u00e9,
\nEt saurai-je, en mourant, restituer au monde
\nCe grand abus d\u2019amour, de r\u00eave et de clart\u00e9 ?<\/p>\n
H\u00e9las ! je voudrais bien ne plus \u00eatre orgueilleuse,
\nMais ce que j\u2019ai souffert m\u2019arrache un cri vainqueur.
\nPour \u00e9lancer encor ma voix temp\u00e9tueuse
\nIl faudrait une foule, et qui n\u2019aurait qu\u2019un c\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":[274],"poems-book":[594],"poemes-theme":[],"poete":[611],"class_list":["post-13018","poemes","type-poemes","status-publish","hentry","annee-274","poems-book-les-vivants-et-les-morts","poete-anna-de-noailles"],"yoast_head":"\n