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Une Feuille Morte

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt 1840 (Petworth House) – 1922 (United Kingdom)

Je rêve debout devant la porte
Qui vient de se fermer sur moi.
Je colle mes yeux en triste sorte
Sur ce carré de sombre bois.
Je tourne entre mes deux doigts
Une fleur, une petite fleur; qu'importe?
Elle était bien bleue autrefois.
Ce n'est plus qu'une feuille morte.
Pauvre fleur, la douleur t'enlaidit
Les pétales mornes et pendues.
Tu sens mauvais, tu noircis.
Hélas fidèle, que fais--tu?
Mourir! C'est vite prendre ton parti!
Et moi donc, qui ai tant perdu?

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Submitted on May 13, 2011

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Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt was an English poet and writer. more…

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