Et maintenant que sont tomb\u00e9s les hauts feuillages
\nQui tenaient le jardin sous leur ombre abrit\u00e9,
\nOn voit, \u00e0 travers le branchage \u00e0 nu, monter
\nL\u00e0-bas, vers l\u2019horizon, les toits des vieux villages.<\/p>\n
Tant que l\u2019\u00e9t\u00e9 darda sa joie, aucun de nous
\nNe les a vus group\u00e9s non loin de notre porte
\nMais aujourd\u2019hui que fleurs et que feuilles sont mortes
\nNous y songeons souvent avec des pensers doux.<\/p>\n
D\u2019autres gens vivent l\u00e0, entre des murs de pierre,
\nDerri\u00e8re un seuil us\u00e9 que prot\u00e8ge un auvent,
\nN\u2019ayant pour seuls amis que la pluie et le vent
\nEt la lampe dont luit l\u2019amicale lumi\u00e8re.<\/p>\n
Dans l\u2019ombre, au soir tombant, quand s\u2019\u00e9veille le feu
\nEt que se tait l\u2019horloge o\u00f9 le temps se balance,
\nAutant que nous, sans doute, ils aiment le silence
\nPour se sentir penser au travers de leurs yeux.<\/p>\n
Rien ne trouble ni pour eux ni pour nous ces heures
\nDe profonde et tranquille et tendre intimit\u00e9
\nO\u00f9 l\u2019on b\u00e9nit l\u2019instant qui fut d\u2019avoir \u00e9t\u00e9
\nEt dont celle qui vient est toujours la meilleure.<\/p>\n
Dites, comme eux aussi serrent l\u2019ancien bonheur
\nFait de peine et de joie entre leurs mains qui tremblent ;
\nIls connaissent leurs corps qui ont vieilli ensemble
\nEt leurs regards us\u00e9s par les m\u00eames douleurs.<\/p>\n
Les roses de leur vie, ils les aiment fan\u00e9es
\nAvec leur gloire morte et leur dernier parfum
\nEt le lourd souvenir de leur \u00e9clat d\u00e9funt
\nSe frippant, feulle \u00e0 feuille, au jardin des ann\u00e9es.<\/p>\n
Contre le noir hiver ainsi que des reclus
\nIls se tiennent blottis dans leur ferveur humaine
\nEt rien ne les abat et rien ne les am\u00e8ne
\n\u00c0 se plaindre des jours qu\u2019ils ne poss\u00e8dent plus.<\/p>\n
Oh ! les tranquilles gens au fond des vieux villages !
\nDites, les sentons-nous voisins de notre c\u0153ur !
\nEt combien, dans leurs yeux, retrouvons-nous nos pleurs
\nEt notre force et notre ardeur dans leur courage !<\/p>\n
Ils sont l\u00e0, sous leur toit, assis autour des feux
\nOu s\u2019attardant parfois au bord de leur fen\u00eatre,
\nEt, par ce soir de vent ample et flottant, peut-\u00eatre
\nOnt-ils pens\u00e9 de nous ce que nous pensons d\u2019eux.<\/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":[278],"poems-book":[704],"poemes-theme":[],"poete":[654],"class_list":["post-15739","poemes","type-poemes","status-publish","hentry","annee-278","poems-book-les-heures-du-soir","poete-emile-verhaeren"],"yoast_head":"\n