Liberté ...

                                                        Les feuilles d'automne ...                                 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              Quand le livre où s'endort chaque soir ma pensée,
Quand l'air de la maison, les soucis du foyer,
Quand le bourdonnement de la ville insensée
Où toujours on entend quelque chose crier,

Quand tous ces mille soins de misère ou de fête
Qui remplissent nos jours, cercle aride et borné,
Ont tenu trop longtemps, comme un joug sur ma tête,
Le regard de mon âme à la terre tourné ;

Elle s'échappe enfin, va, marche, et dans la plaine
Prend le même sentier qu'elle prendra demain,
Qui l'égare au hasard et toujours la ramène,
Comme un coursier prudent qui connaît le chemin.

Elle court aux forêts où dans l'ombre indécise
Flottent tant de rayons, de murmures, de voix,
Trouve la rêverie au premier arbre assise,
Et toutes deux s'en vont ensemble dans les bois !

A ma Bretagne

Evariste Boulay-Paty.

Demain ... dès l'aube !

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             "Demain, dès l'aube, à l'heure où blanchit la campagne,
Je partirai. Vois-tu, je sais que tu m'attends.
J'irai par la forêt, j'irai par la montagne.
Je ne puis demeurer loin de toi plus longtemps.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     Je marcherai les yeux fixés sur mes pensées,
Sans rien voir au dehors, sans entendre aucun bruit,
Seul, inconnu, le dos courbé, les mains croisées,
Triste, et le jour pour moi sera comme la nuit.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   Je ne regarderai ni l'or du soir qui tombe,
Ni les voiles au loin descendant vers Harfleur,
Et quand j'arriverai, je mettrai sur ta tombe
Un bouquet de houx vert et de bruyère en fleur."

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        Victor Hugo   
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       ( anecdote : Victor hugo communiquait avec sa fille décédée
et on dit qu'il est mort fou à cause de cela).
 

Une bonne grosse soupe d'amour ...

JUIN


                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         J'aime bien le mois de Juin
C'est celui des cerises
Des longues journées sans fin
Aux douces soirées exquises.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               Très tôt dès le matin
Tous les oiseaux devisent
Et tard quand la nuit vient
Certains encore s'avisent.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     C'est le temps des examens
Où les sérieux révisent
Et leurs moments malsains
Des attentes indécises.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 C'est tendres gazons coussins
Où la rosée irise
Les beaux serments divins
Des amants qui se bisent.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            Et puis au mois de juin
On pense à ses valises
Car très bientôt revient
L'heure des  vacances promises.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      Robert Casanova.

Le temps des cerises

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               Quand Quand nous chanterons le temps des cerises,
Et gai rossignol et merle moqueur
Seront tous en fête ;
Les belles auront la folie en tête
Et les amoureux du soleil au coeur ...
Quand nous chanterons le temps des cerises,
sifflera bien mieux le merle moqueur.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         Mais il est bien court, le temps des cerises,
Où l'on s'en va deux cueillir en rêvant
Des pendants d'oreille !
Cerises d'amour aux robes pareilles,
Tombant sur la feuille en gouttes de sang ! ...
Mais il est bien court le temps des cerises,
Pendants de corail qu'on cueille en rêvant !

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     Quand nous serons au temps des cerises,
si vous avez peur des chagrins d'amour,
Evitez les belles.
Moi qui ne crains pas les peines cruelles,
je ne vivrais poimt sans souffrir un jour ...
Quand nous en serons au temps des cerises,
vous aurez aussi vos peines d'amour.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          J'aimerai toujours le temps des cerises ;
C'est de ce temps là que je garde au coeur
Une plaie ouverte ;
Et Dame fortune, en m'étant offerte,
ne pourra jamais fermer ma douleur ...
J'aimerai toujours le temps des cerises
Et le souvenir que je garde au coeur.

  Jean-Baptiste Clément (1836 - 1903)

 .

La mer

Des vastes mers tableau philosophique,
Tu plais au coeur de chagrins agité :
Quand de ton sein par les vents tourmenté,
Quand des écueils et des grèves antiques
Sortent des bruits, des voix mélancoliques,
L’âme attendrie en ses rêves se perd,
Et, s’égarant de penser en penser,
Comme les flots de murmure en murmure,
Elle se mêle à toute la nature :
Avec les vents, dans le fond des déserts,
Elle gémit le long des bois sauvages,
Sur l’Océan vole avec les orages,
Gronde en la foudre, et tonne dans les mers.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        Mais quand le jour sur les vagues tremblantes
S’en va mourir ; quand, souriant encor,
Le vieux soleil glace de pourpre et d’or
Le vert changeant des mers étincelantes,
Dans des lointains fuyants et veloutés,
En enfonçant ma pensée et ma vue,
J’aime à créer des mondes enchantés
Baignés des eaux d’une mer inconnue.
L’ardent désir, des obstacles vainqueur,
Trouve, embellit des rives bocagères,
Des lieux de paix, des îles de bonheur,
Où, transporté par les douces chimères,
Je m’abandonne aux songes de mon coeur.

François-René de Chateaubriand

Source : holaf44.centerblog.net 

Imagine

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  Un éternel matin pourrait recommencer
tout entier baigné d'une chaude lumière,
et les oiseaux du ciel, eux mêmes se tairaient
pour que le dieu-Eté entende ma prière.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             Imagine, imagine
                              qu'un jour...

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     Je te devinerai au bout du chemin
d'où tu arriverais, encore tout nimbé d'or,
Et, secouant le soleil accroché à tes mains
Tu me dirais : "regarde, voilà enfin le port".

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 Imagine, imagine
                             qu'un jour tu puisse revenir...

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    Tu allumerais alors un puissant feu de joie
qui chasserait mes peurs au pays de l'oubli
et ton coeur et mon coeur n'auraient plus jamais froid
car l'amour le plus fort peut redonner la vie.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           Imagine...

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  (avec l'autorisation de l'Auteure) :  Colette Roux.

       mai ...                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             Depuis un mois, chère exilée,