Le soleil, dans les monts o\u00f9 sa clart\u00e9 s\u2019\u00e9tale,
\nAjuste \u00e0 son arc d\u2019or sa fl\u00e8che horizontale ;
\nLes hauts taillis sont pleins de biches et de faons ;
\nL\u00e0 rit dans les rochers, vein\u00e9s comme des marbres,
\nUne chaumi\u00e8re heureuse ; en haut, un bouquet d\u2019arbres,
\n\ufeffAu-dessous, un bouquet d\u2019enfants.<\/p>\n
C\u2019est l\u2019instant de songer aux choses redoutables.
\nOn entend les buveurs danser autour des tables ;
\nTandis que, gais, joyeux, heurtant les escabeaux,
\nIls m\u00ealent aux refrains leurs amours peu farouches,
\nLes lettres des chansons qui sortent de leurs bouches
\nVont \u00e9crire autour d\u2019eux leurs noms sur leurs tombeaux.<\/p>\n
Mourir ! demandons-nous, \u00e0 toute heure, en nous-m\u00eame :
\n\u2014 Comment passerons-nous le passage supr\u00eame ?
\nFinir avec grandeur est un illustre effort.
\nLe moment est lugubre et l\u2019\u00e2me est accabl\u00e9e ;
\nQuel pas que la sortie ! \u2014 Oh ! l\u2019affreuse vall\u00e9e
\n\ufeffQue l\u2019embuscade de la mort !<\/p>\n
Quel frisson dans les os de l\u2019agonisant bl\u00eame !
\nAutour de lui tout marche et vit, tout rit, tout aime,
\nLa fleur luit, l\u2019oiseau chante en son palais d\u2019\u00e9t\u00e9,
\nTandis que le mourant en qui d\u00e9cro\u00eet la flamme,
\nFr\u00e9mit sous ce grand ciel, pr\u00e9cipice de l\u2019\u00e2me,
\nAb\u00eeme effrayant d\u2019ombre et de tranquillit\u00e9 !<\/p>\n
Souvent, me rappelant le front \u00e9trange et p\u00e2le
\nDe tous ceux que j\u2019ai vus \u00e0 cette heure fatale,
\n\u00catres qui ne sont plus, fr\u00e8res, amis, parents,
\nAux instants o\u00f9 l\u2019esprit \u00e0 r\u00eaver se hasarde,
\nSouvent je me suis dit : Qu\u2019est-ce donc qu\u2019il regarde,
\n\ufeffCet \u0153il effar\u00e9 des mourants ?<\/p>\n
Que voit-il ? \u2026 \u2014 \u00d4 terreur ! de t\u00e9n\u00e9breuses routes,
\nUn chaos compos\u00e9 de spectres et de doutes,
\nLa terre vision, le ver r\u00e9alit\u00e9,
\nUn jour oblique et noir qui, troublant l\u2019\u00e2me errante,
\nM\u00eale au dernier rayon de la vie expirante
\nTa premi\u00e8re lueur, sinistre \u00e9ternit\u00e9 !<\/p>\n
On croit sentir dans l\u2019ombre une horrible piq\u00fbre.
\nTout ce qu\u2019on fit s\u2019en va comme une f\u00eate obscure,
\nEt tout ce qui riait devient peine ou remord.
\nQuel moment, m\u00eame, h\u00e9las ! pour l\u2019\u00e2me la plus haute,
\nQuand le vrai tout \u00e0 coup para\u00eet, quand la vie \u00f4te
\n\ufeffSon masque, et dit : Je suis la mort !<\/p>\n
Ah ! si tu fais trembler m\u00eame un c\u0153ur sans reproche,
\nS\u00e9pulcre ! le m\u00e9chant avec horreur t\u2019approche.
\nTon seuil profond lui semble une rougeur de feu ;
\nSur ton vide pour lui quand ta pierre se l\u00e8ve,
\nIl s\u2019y penche ; il y voit, ainsi que dans un r\u00eave,
\nLa face vague et sombre et l\u2019\u0153il fixe de Dieu.<\/p>\n
Biarritz, juillet 1843.<\/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":[224],"poems-book":[225],"poemes-theme":[],"poete":[206],"class_list":["post-9232","poemes","type-poemes","status-publish","hentry","annee-224","poems-book-les-contemplations","poete-victor-hugo"],"yoast_head":"\n