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Je voulais te donner la joie! Ne rien garder! Et maintenant est ce que tu vas me quitter sans aucun serment? Le paradis que tu vas fermer, est ce que tu seras incapable de le rouvrir? En qui pour moi, ton amour me remplit. J e me sens vivre en ces doux moments avec toi. Alors laisse moi terminer par te dire. Consomme mon absence. Que le Seigneur veille sur vous.

A trop aimer Aux amis C'est assez dur trouver du temps pour tout les doit-faires Mais ca ne bloque pas nos couers. Les amis sont plus precieux que les mots qui les attirent. Les amis sont la difference entre la victoire et la victoire en solitude A tout a l'heure. Tout donne dans ce contexe de L'amour et on ce repose sur une mise en Question qui ;dit moi qui tu es et je te dirai qui je suis bravo!

Bonne politique vous parlez de Humain mais de quoi? T je suis vous. Pour moi l'amour, c'est cette soif d'absolu que l'on recherche toute sa vie. L'amour peut vous semblez dure, mais ne trouvez vous pas qu'elle en vaut la peine. Je n'attends rien. L'amour c'est comme un livre , si tu ne prends pas les premiers chapitres tranquillement. L'amour, c'est un regard, un son, un projet, un don, un cocon. O OOO le printemps pour nous trois et les enfants que l'on invente O sainte Rita! Priez pour nous!! En me frottant au rugueux de la vie,o ma tendresse infinie, vous me rendez hommage.

Un poeme pour ma cherie En anglais Valentine Sipping lazy honey On the beaches of time We lounge Sweet memories- days gone, unforgotten Stroll past, whispering Sweet nothings Our hands interlace An insincere barricade As we dance a circle Our love spins The ground beneath our feet- Dead to the common nonsense Alive to life's fulness As our smiles reflect From your love-glazed eyes to my love-dazed soul We listen To the promises of little moments Memories of a better tomorrow Our love Happy Valentines!

Quand on aime on doute de tout. Ton gardien de la porte. J'aime tellement ce talent d'orateur, cette outrance dans le choix des mots et du style L'amour me transporte, et cela fait maintenant 3 jours que je ne mange plus, pour autant je ne me laisserai pas mourir car je garde espoir. Je suis aux ordres du chef L'Amour Passionnel Le Gardien de la porte. Il n'y a vraiment rien au monde de plus beau que l'amour.

Amour je t'aime : Aurore. Comment, comment? Je t'aime, mais le sais tu? J'aurais juste voulu savoir ce que faisait la plupart des amoureux de la toile? C'est l'homme qui offre ou c'est la femme? Est-ce qu'un oubli est dramatique plus qu'un anniversaire? Et bien d'autres Au fait, mon amour, je t'aime! Le but de la vie n'est pas le bonheur, quoiqu'on le pense habituellement, mais de devenir meilleur. Entre cet absolu et ce relatif, quel point de jonction? En conclusion, tout n'est-il pas indiscutablement "relatif"?

T pour Nao. Affirmation gratuite! Le parfait, c'est l'absolu ; l'imparfait, c'est le relatif ; au regard du parfait qui est tout, le relatif, le contingent n'est rien ; au regard du parfait, le relatif est sans valeur Faux! Et personne n'oserait soutenir une telle opinion. Je puis encore raisonner comme suit : Ou bien ce n'est pas Dieu qui est l'auteur de l'Univers j'exprime ainsi ma conviction.

Leur Dieu est pur Esprit. Au contraire! Yorik C'est impossible. Eh bien! Et alors? Pourquoi Rien? C'est regrettable. Dieu, on lui fait dire ce qu'on veut. Mais comment ne pas craindre ce Dieu terrible! Et de nous regarder dans ce miroir qu'est la vie, est la souffrance la plus terrible qu'on puisse imaginer.

Ce que je hais dans mes enfants, c'est ce que je suis! Un jour on m'oubliera et je ne le souhaite pas mais pour moi c'est trop tard j'ai rater ma vie. Je n'aurai jamais une seconde chance C'est pas vraiment a faire mais si ce n'est pas toi c'est lui qui te le ferra. Les religions veulent s'approprier chacune la connaissance de ce Dieu, mais Dieu existe en dehors de quelque religion que ce soit et n'en a pas besoin. C'est certainement ma plus grande invention.

Tout ce qu'ils font, ils le font librement. Que les autres ne le sont dans leurs exercices. Quand saint Louis m'aime, dit Dieu. Je sais qu'il m'aime. Tous les prosternements du monde Ne valent pas le bel agenouillement droit d'un homme libre. Toutes les soumissions, tous les accablements du monde. C'est un homme libre, c'est un libre baron de l'Ile-de-France. Or c'est tout. Sans doute il craint Dieu. Et quand il m'aime c'est vrai.

Et quand il dit qu'il m'aime c'est vrai. Et pourtant Dieu est en train de gagner la partie contre le Diable! Mais les anges ne pourraient pas aimer le diable qui est contre leur nature. They are simple nights when the whole sky seems to me deserted, with cold, dead stars, in an absurd universe in which just us, in our great solitude, we are struggling hard on a provincial planet, like in a borrow in which there is no running water, no electric light, in which express trains never stop.

Maybe that whatever here is heavy and oppressing becomes light, whatever here is dark and opaque becomes shinny and transparent. Whatever that we try without achieving not even half a way, our useless gestures, our fallen dreams…. Besoin de douceur si tu savais Tu sais? Non chalance? Oui, je pense aussi…. Mon amour est vertigineux.

"Un balcon sur la mer", un film romanesque et hanté

Proverbe toucouleur. A bon entendeur, salut! Donc, mes yeux, vous avez tant de plaisir, vous recevez tant de bonheur par ces yeux ; mais toi, mon coeur, plus tu les vois s'y complaire, plus tu languis, plus tu as de chagrin. Tristesse de savoir que de nouveau Il est observateur de la vie. Maintenant, c'est fini. C'est une erreur. Le futur confirmera mon oracle. Even when i try to forget you I can't stop thinking about you About the way you acted and played with me I can't let go off the past Even when i try to laugh I can't, i'm so tired of acting I need to show the truth All i do is cry Even when i try to have fun I can't , you always come back in my minds I try to forget you, it's so difficult All i do is try Even now i realized Too many tears have been sheded All of this as got to stop I have to mend my broken heart.

Et pourtant j'attends, trop souvent Si tu m'attends, je reviendrai. Attends et avec eux refuse de lever ton verre. Et qui ne m'a pas attendu Peut bien dire : "C'est de la veine". La poudre du temps me recouvre le visage. As —tu pu la pleurer? As-tu pu le revoir? Eh toi! As-tu pu oublier? As-tu pu pardonner? Alaichem Sholom! Cela peut nous sembler une aubaine et c'en est une. Elle nous apporte un sentiment de paix, ou nous fait rire. Mais ce n'est que pour une saison. Merci de faire partie de ma vie! Dans tous les cas : Travaille comme si tu n'avais pas besoin d'argent.

Et danse comme si personne ne te regardait. Blanche-neige est une addictive. Elle explore des territoires limites. Blanche neige est lasse de ses sept nains priapiques, mineurs de fond de ses fantasmes. Il suffit de vouloir combattre. Lui, Son attention, Sa grandeur.. L'amour aussi intense soit-il, ne doit pas faire souffrir. Vivre un amour par courrier je n'en veux pas. Un homme qui me trompe, non plus. De Musset. Il est beau de savoir manier les mots mais vivez votre amour, cela vous apportera plus de bonheur ou de malheur.

Confrontez vous au quotidien.


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Je n'attendais que Lui.. L'amour est un sentiment qui nous fait toujours avancer plus loin. Nicolas pour toi je suis capable de te suivre ou tu veux. Mon bb je t'aime! Il est assez riche pour cela. Ca vaut le coup.. Hello, I love you ne me diras-tu pas ton nom? Bonjour a vous, vous savez je passe des moment a la fois joyeux et a la fois si triste que j'ai le gout de lacher prise et de mourrir. J'apprend que je suis enceinte de 8semaine et 2jours.

J'en parle a mon conjoint qu ies en prison pour m'avoir battu a maintes reprises. Il dit qu'Il change parce que il m'aime du plus profond de son coeur. L'eau ne change jamais. Le sable ne deviendra pas autre chose. Fleury L'amour n'est-il pas plus fort que nous? Que tout? Faites attention au temps Il temporise l'amour Le fait rentrer dans son reflet de nuit Chemisette de soie Pour le jour il lui met des roses au vase et lui donne un cadeau d'anniversaire En temps et en heure Attention au temps Il dit : "et bien!

La tention du temps Tu n'es pas belle, tu es magnifique Tu n'es pas dans mon coeur, tu es mon coeur Et je ne pleurerais pas si tu pars, mais je mourrais Comme jamais je ne le fus jusqu'ici! Chacune de tes lignes de fuites! A te recouvrir De chair et de sang! De souffle! Ah, oui, l'amour! Je ne t'aime que parce que c'est toi que j'aime, et je te hais sans fin, te hais et te supplie, et la mesure de mon amour voyageur est de ne pas te voir, de t'aimer en aveugle.

Aimer c'est tout partager, c'est faire des concessions qui n'en sont pas. C'est vouloir passer du temps avec toi, parler de tout , de rien, de choses importantes. Je l'arrose de temps en temps, elle survit. Un ami en a peur. Et la famille, n'en parlons pas. J'avais un chat aussi, puis des poissons, un furet Mais si, je vous aime. Mon amour je t'aime! C'est pas beau je sais. Pas assez confiant? Trop peur d'un nouvel abandon. Claro que si! Il ne me manque rien.

Cette manie que j'ai de trop souvent vouloir me plaire! Moi aussi. Tout dans ton regard me dit ce que tu veux ami. Me dit-elle. A la force de la nature, je la regarde. Elle est belle, lui aussi, tout le monde il est beau. La question n'est plus de savoir qu'est-ce que c'est que l'amour. Un mur…ou un rivage.. Et la Vie? Une Majuscule. Tout est devenu flou.. Insultes de pacotille… Le paradis pour tous? Une belle fumisterie! Dessus dessous.. Aux bas-fonds.. Murs de haine.. Que cesse le simulacre..

Le reste serait du bavardage… 15 mai — reprise le 14 septembre …. Hoy discordia y guerra evitaras si es que la vida en paz quisieras disfrutar..! Queridos amigos este es el primer verso de este poema, que les dedico por su noble gesto de promover un tema tan importante en la red. Le public veut du fast-food, du fun, du sexy, du glamour, du fashion. Il n'est pas contrariant, le public, il veut ce qu'on lui donne, et il en redemande.

C'est un principe, le client est roi. Sa philosophie: "je consomme donc je suis". Je veux, je prends, je jette. Les lois? Ce sont des trucs de pauvres. Ils ont le culot d'exister? Mais ils se croient tout permis! Qu'est-ce-que c'est que ce buisness? Ils ne vont pas rouler en Ferrari, non plus! Rien ne doit nous distraire et surtout pas de badinage.

Le Plan doit perdurer. C'est tout le monde, c'est personne. Ce n'est pas moi. Il y aura toujours des libres penseurs.

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J'ai le grand plaisir de remercier les fondateurs de ce site des Hommes honnettes. Le contexte fait Simple question! Pourquoi s'aimer si c'est pour s'aimer soi? A toi je t'ai dit Que de l'amour Sur les ponts on ne passera plus,ensemble. Le manque et le vide se ressemblent L'absence est totale quand j'y repense.

Ami e , entends-tu? Tjs la meme equipe de pot car on ne change pas une equipe ki gagne, certe BENOIT allias Peppino, il etudie comme un laid pour ces repechs et tjs sans femme ms bon cella ne nous regarde pas en plus nous avons apprit que son surnom a legerement ete modifier en pepunouille ms bon cela ne nous regarde pas Mtn place a Bruno Marcello Love cannot be defined.

It's somewhere you find yourself without realising how you got there Sur le sablier. Combat le froid de l'onde et laisse toi partir Je vous jure que j'aime me sentir libre. Si un jour la vague revient, j'aurai encore la force de me ramener, sur le sable. Seul sur le sable, les yeux dans l'eau Moi, ce que je ressent? Pour moi l'amour c'est la plus belle chose au monde et en plus je me cherche un chum si je vous interesse appeller au et j'ai 9ans signer jennifer dauphin. Plus que des regrets, envies de vengeance, envie d'oublier ton visage, ton nom, tout de toi. Tout ce qui m'a fait t'aimer.

Plus de toi, plus de moi, plus de nous. Nous qui n'a jamais exister. Ce soir, nulle ne tient ta main. C'est dit. Liaison inhumaine? A l'ombre. A l'ombre d'un arbre, j'attends ses fruits. Le soleil qui brille pour tous Mon ventre s'en souvient encore. On avait beau essayer Les minutes sont parfois futiles, longues dans la douleur.

Les heures sont interminables, d'autres du rendez-vous. Ma vie ne fait qu'y penser Unie vers celle que l'on aime, unie vers celui que l'on aime. Uni vers celle que l'on aime, uni vers celui que l'on aime L'amour c la pire chose qui puisse ns arriver, quoique c oci la plus belle. Tu sais avec ta voix, panser mes blessures, avec ton sourire, raviver ma joie, avec ton regard faire renaitre mon espoir.

Mais tu sais mieux que quiconque me faire du mal, me faire pleurer, me faire douter. Pourtant il n'y a pas un doute possible: je ne suis pas grand chose pour toi, une amie tout au plus T'oublier serait m'oublier un peu, car pour toi je pourrais abandonner mes yeux, car tu es mon seul paysage, je pourrais abandonner ma peau, car tu es mes seules caresses, je pourrais abandonner ma bouche car tu es le seul gout que j'aime Millye, tes la, bulle d'innocence. J'ai mal! Une force s'empare de moi. Sans explication tu pars, sans excuse non plus.

Je t'aime, je te respecte, toi et ton devenir, maintenant et demain encore plus loin de moi. G des petits cop1, mais le pbls c ke je ne les gardes pas lgt a cause de mes parents, g 20 ans mais g pas le droit de sortir kn je vx. Il tien a moi et ne veut pa me perdre. Ode pluie.

Il pleut, les gouttes se rassemblent, et flaque! Les ondes circulaires entourent le choc, et viennent mourrir sur le rebord. Puis un chant d'oiseau, printannier, se dessine. Je regarde le ciel. De jour comme de nuit calme et violent au ralentie, l'espace d'une vie il nous aime et nous aussi. Il devient urgent de nous contacter, de parler une langue Universelle,une langue vraie, une langue d'amour et non de reproches, de culpabilisations, de pouvoirs.

Je n'ai toujours pas compris. Ce n'est pas rien ce grand A puisque c'est toi qui me l'a offert et me l'a appris. Aimer avec ce grand A c'est Aimer encore, sans rien renier, ni rien oublier , quand tout s'est enfui. Est-ce une de ces malheureuses histoires? Certains appellent ca la vie, la vraie. Au premier jour j'ai perdu l'amour et de ce fait un peu la vie, car vivre sans amour n'est pour moi qu'un etat de semi torpeur.

Certe, ils pu consoler instant cette peine que je porte, je leur dois bien cela. Il faut s'y faire je ne suis qu'humain Un jour. Ainsi passe le temps, la vie est un long fleuve Pas de pessimisme, ici, que dis-tu? Humain, si tu ne crois plus en rien, bouge. Le fou.

à : to, toward, towards

Ta, ta la, la , la , ta la la , ta, ta la, la la, je t'aime. Il y a que parfois je me sens loin de toi durant mon sommeil onirique. C'est mon site de repos xxx Soleil. Et si on parlait d'amour N'y a t-il pas de mot pour exprimer ce chao? Je te dis je t'aime d'avoir trop saigner Carnivore j'oublie parfois d'aimer. Et toi? FCNA je t'aime, au fait, sarah si tu lis cela, c'est que t'es un peu curieuse Dans l'ensemble tout va bien, notre coeur bat et rebat encore. Il n'inspire que consommation et abus Heureusement que l'amour croise son chemin et sublime en sa conscience.

Je vous aime, aime toi, aime nous. Ami m'entends-tu? Il semblerait bien qu'il manque des convictions pour ma voie. L'amour c'est Pour Amladi Perle issue de larmes et de cendre. Pour ceux que j'aime et qui se reconnaitront si, par hasard, ils tombent sur ce message. Sinon, pour tous ceux qui le liront L'amour quel beau secret Mais pourquoi faut-il se cacher pour aimer????

Est-ce qu'on pourrait me conseiller? L'amour n'est rien sans toi. Tu sens cette main qui anime. Tu sens le temps qui nous dit: " J'ai besoin de toi. Jaimerais tant avoir de tes nouvelles. Merci Ta petite soeur Vanessa.

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Le bonheur d'une femme heureuse. C'est avec le temps Tous les jours l'amour se manifeste. Mais qu'est-ce que l'amour? Un jour tu es au paradis Et le lendemain tout est fini Qu'est-ce que l'amour? N'est-ce qu'une illusion Pour pouvoir te sentir mieu? Ou n'est-ce que ce sentiment dont tout le monde parle Et dont tout le monde Veut s'approprier la vie? Tite puce perdue. Ami prend donc ton verre et surtout ne te renverse pas. L'eau de tes yeux. Je vois l'eau de tes yeux qui brille et irise le regard de ma vie. Le soleil se couche, le vent frai se pose le nez, les mains, les joues, et le bout de tes pieds.

Je vois l'eau de tes yeux qui coule dans ce ruisseau de peine et qui rejoind ma mer de chagrin. Que je suivrais combien de temps? L'amour t'attend. Je m'aime. C'est fou comme je m'aime. Pendant la nuit je m'oublie, c'est mon inconscient qui fait que je fuis. Si un jour je me reproduis, Clone je le nommerais. Et si un jour je meurs, mon fils saura me venger. Je m'aime, je m'aime, c'est fou comme je m'aime.

Je m'aime, c'est fou ce que je m'aime. Non, je m'aime, pour mieux pouvoir vous aimer. La confiance nous honnore,le repos nous fascine les enfants qui babillent,on ne sait pas. La voie du bonheur que nous connaissons illusoire, Tu sais cette voie que je n'emprunterai pas sans toi. Je la marque sans rime et sans trop de besoin de toi. J'apprends de cette vie qui me fascine, que n'aimer plus que toi me fascinera, avec la certitude de vivre ces rares moments ou tu entendras, dans des moments encore inutiles: je t'ai A nos ennuis!

Qui aimer sans faillir? Je veux bien vivre d'amour et d'eau fraiche, je veux bien me battre pour sauver mon amour, pour sauver l'amour , je veux bien mourir par amour si l'amour peux me survivre et se perpetrer encore et encore. J'aime beaucoup cette petite phrase "L'amour ne se divise pas, il se multiplie". In a man of Samain's diffident tempera- Albert S amain 57 ment, such full-blooded encouragement must have been of the greatest value. But, as the desire to learn, to talk, to mix in an intellectual life, grew upon him, more and more did Samain find the life of a little clerk in the provinces insupportable.

It is truer of France than of any other country that its capital is the centre of its entire intellectual life. Samain had paid a flying visit to Paris in , to see the Exposition. Even more than at ordinary times, the Paris of an Exposition year dazzles, and snaps, and glows. After his return to the wearisome dulness of Lille, Samain thought of it as the Mecca of all his dreams. It lured like the Pot of Gold at the end of the Rainbow. As luck would have it, in July, , his firm decided to send him to its Paris house.

He was to be only a transient addition, but he intended to stay if he could, and on express- ing this wish to his superiors it was acceded to, and his salary raised to francs a year. It might seem now as though things were at last coming Samain's way. Here he was, transplanted to Paris, and with the exciting possibility of having some famous literary celebrity living just round the corner.

But in cities like Paris, " round the corner" might just as well be across the Channel. Albert Samain was living in Paris, which, as a thought, must have given him considerable satisfaction ; but the satisfaction began and ended in the realms of the idea. Now, he was at his office from nine in the morning until after midnight. Only once or twice a week did he even have some hours of freedom in the evening. And then there was no energy left to do any good work. So Samain lived in Paris more solitarily than he had done in Lille, for there was no M.

Lemoigne there. And he could not work so well because he had less time. They were not cheerful letters which he sent back to M. They were bitter, discouraged letters. He must change his business, there was no other way ; but to what? The faithful Lemoigne was instant in suggestion. His friend must try journalism ; and, succeeding in that, have leisure for greater literary effort.

It must have been a constant strain for Lemoigne to push his friend along, and his patience and effort were remarkable. Samain always held back, and was discouraged before he began. But Lemoigne firmly insisted. Poor Samain hastily wrote a paper on Offenbach and took it to the Figaro. It was not liked. Then he wrote to the editors of Gil Bias, and the Beaumarchais. His letters were not an- swered.

So that seemed to be an end to journalism in Paris. Samain was willing to give it up. Lemoigne was not. If Paris would not see his friend's genius, Lille should. Really Lemoigne's unswerving faith Albert Samain 59 is very beautiful, and it is a satisfaction to realize how abundantly it was justified. There was at this time in Lille a weekly called Le Bonhomme Flamand. It amounted to very little, as, of course, Lemoigne knew, but Samain must be printed. And two little stories of Samain's did appear in it signed Gry-Pearl, for Samain was afraid of the amusement of his friends if he signed his own name.

The quasi-English flavour of the pseudonym is interesting. Shortly afterwards, Le Bonhomme Flamand died a natural death. The editor of an- other Lille paper annoyed Samain by chopping up one of the latter's articles to suit himself, so Samain refused to send any more, and forced M. Lemoigne to approve.

Here ended Samain's attempt to push open the doors of journalism, if we except two articles in an unknown gazette, and a little piece in U Illustration. Samain slipped back to his old solitary life, writing for himself alone. In July, 1 88 1, Mme. Samain joined her son in Paris. And from this time on they were never separated. Even among Frenchmen, whose affec- tion for their mothers has become a proverb, Samain's love for, and care of, his is extraordinary.

For her sake he never married ; his salary was not enough to support two women. Later, his youngest brother Paul joined them; Alice, his sister, remaining behind in Lille where she had married. It was a quiet, family life they 60 Six French Poets lived in the little apartment, rue des Petits-Champs. It was a safe, excellent life for a rising young clerk, sure of stepping up in his business from position to higher position, and finally attaining to a business of his own. But for a poet, how petty, how exacting!

How painful to weary the brain all day with figures so that at night it cannot find words! Weak in many ways though Samain was, he never wavered in his firm resolution to write. If he could only gain enough to keep his mother he would be satisfied ; for himself he only demanded a less fatiguing work, with more leisure.

He watched, and watched, until he found something. And what he found was a small clerkship in the third bureau of the Depart- ment of Instruction, with a salary of francs a year. In spite of suggestions and offers from his firm, he took it without a moment's hesitation.

And it speaks excellently for Mme. Samain that she apparently bore him no ill-will for so materially cutting down their income. The change was undoubtedly a good thing for Samain. He was only obliged to be at his desk for seven hours a day, his colleagues were men of better education than those in the sugar house, and finding a copy of Boileau open upon the table of his chief gave him the feeling of being in a sympathetic atmosphere.

But still, taking everything by and large, Samain could not feel very successful. He had left Lille, true ; he had got rid of the detested Albert Samain 61 sugar-broking ; he was definitely settled in Paris. And there was an end to his achievements. In a letter written much later, he says : " At twenty-five years old, without the slightest exaggeration, I had not a single literary friend or acquaintance.

My only relations were with young men belonging to the business world. The momentary, hazarding exploits of a very young man. From his boyhood he had fed upon the Romantics ; Lamartine, Hugo, and Musset had been his gods. Two of these giants being un- happily dead and the third a very old man, he wor- shipped their belated shadows : Theodore de Banville and Jean Richepin. He sent a letter with an en- thusiastic ode to Banville, but the visit which Banville invited him to make in return was unfortunate in the extreme. Banville carped and criticised, and Samain took flight never to go back again.

Twice more, Samain was so ill-judged as to tempt Fate in this way. He sent letters to both Jean Richepin and Octave Feuillet. Both asked him to call, possibly the visits were repeated more than once, but they had no result. Samain was tasting the bitter lesson, that fecund intimacies fall from the lap of the gods, and are never the result of painstaking endeavour. Samain gave up seeking access to celebrities and went back to his writing, still worshipping the dead authors who had not snubbed him, and writing dans 62 Six French Poets le gout oV avant-hier.

But, though Samain, alone in the quiet lamplit evenings, still bowed before the old shrines, other young men were more adventurous. Various hot bloods got up a society, or rather they organized a group, and called it Nous Autres. They met at a cabaret in Montmartre, and drank bocks, and disputed theories of art and letters, and undoubtedly damned every one who was not themselves, after the manner of young artists.

By and by, they changed cabarets, going to Le Chat Noir, and made it famous by their presence. A kind of vaudeville show was given there, and a series of silhouette plays, in a little puppet theatre, by Henri Riviere had a great vogue. On occasions, at the end of an evening, the young writers read their poems aloud and had their angles rubbed off by one another's criticism.

A friend took Samain to one of these gatherings, and he soon became an habitue. He read a part of his poem, Les Monts, there. Le Chat Noir had a little paper, and in the copy of it for December, , Tsilla appeared on the front page. Tsilla was apparently liked and praised by the frequenters of Le Chat Noir, and Samain wrote a satisfied and happy letter to M.

Lemoigne on the strength of it. Rather pathetically he tells how he has been praised for the healthy quality of his verses, and hopes that he will be able to avoid the maladive contagion of the period. Albert Samain 63 To my mind, Tsilla is one of the dullest poems that ever was written, and gives no hint of the charm of some of his later work. It is the story of a young girl of antiquity that charming and con- venient antiquity so beloved of poets, which never existed anywhere, at any time , who loves an Angel.

In a crisis of adventurousness, she urges the Angel to fly up in the sky, taking her with him, which he does, and they go so near to the rising sun that her black hair is turned to gold. Owing to which acci- dent, she is the first woman in the world who ever had blond hair. The verses are no more interesting nor original than the story. If praise of such an insignificant poem had been all that Samain got out of his cenacle of young poets, his frequenting it would have been a mere waste of time. But it was not all. He got a com- plete upheaval of ideas.

He learnt that Lamartine and Victor Hugo were vieux jeu, that Francois Coppee was not the last word in poetry to these young iconoclasts. He learnt that Verlaine and Mallarme were the proper objects of worship for an up-to-date poet. Any one who has listened to a set of young writers tearing down the generation which has preceded them, showing up all the faults it never knew it had, and sneering at the good points it undoubtedly has, can reproduce these evenings perfectly.

But Samain was a young provincial. All this talk disturbed him. This familiar scoffing 64 Six French Poets at names he considered the greatest in the world unsettled him. What should he do? Whom should he follow? For Samain must follow, he was as incapable of leadership as a man could well be. It is easy to be an iconoclast in French poetry. The classic metres are so exceedingly prescribed and confined that the least little change lands one in nonconformity. But for us, living more than thirty years after the period I am speaking of, for us who are accustomed to the innovations of the vers libristes, Samain's tentative efforts at modernity of form have become almost invisible.

We can find them if we hunt, but to the naked perception they are lost in the general effect of conformity to metrical rules. Yet, to Samain, his not always putting the caesura in the middle of the line, or failing to alternate mas- culine and feminine endings, or occasionally rhyming plurals with singulars all unalterable rules of French classic metre , must have seemed violent innovations indeed. The meetings at Le Chat Noir did not only affect Samain's technical habit, they affected his ideas about everything, even, and most, his religion.

Brought up a Catholic, he had hitherto never doubted his faith ; now it tumbled off him like a shrivelled leaf. Scepticism, a state of mind pecul- Albert Samain 65 iarly unsuited to his temperament, swept over him. The realization that he had lost the support of religion, that its consolations could no longer com- fort him, was agony.

The idea, the resultant void, preoccupied him. He could no longer write, he could only worry and mourn. This was particularly unfortunate as he was at the moment composing the poems which afterwards made up Au Jardin de V Infante, his first volume, which was not published until six years later. The sapping of his vitality by doubt naturally lasted longer with a man of Samain's gentle and resigned disposition than it does with people of bolder characters. In his state of mind, the hilarious and not over- refined pleasures of the literary cabarets were most distasteful.

He was too straightforward and simple himself not to see through the poses and childish debauches of his coterie. He withdrew from it, and retired once more within himself. But he was lonely, bitterly lonely. His brother Paul had been called to his military service, and once more he and his mother lived alone. His modest income of francs was not sufficient to enable him to think of marriage while he still had his mother to support. Whether Samain ever had a definite love story is not known.

It seems hardly possible for him to have escaped such a usual happening ; but, at any rate, whether it was a particular woman whom he gave up, or whether he merely resigned himself to bachelorhood in the ab- 66 Six French Poets stract, certain it is that Samain felt his life bor- dered and arranged, and that he looked forward to no bright happening to change it.

Samain adored him and was proud of him, but from his reticence about his work at home, she does not appear to have been fitted, either by edu- cation or natural ability, to be much of a help to him in it. Only seven hours a day at the Hotel de Ville, and the rest of the time his own! That ' ' rest of the time," which was to have been filled with the work he could not do. It hung heavy on his hands, and to distract himself he took to taking long walks about Paris. He would stroll along the Seine, turn- ing over the leaves of the books in the bouquiniste 1 s boxes on the parapets of the quais, amusing himself with the old engravings in the ten centimes boxes, breathing in the sharp scent of the river and the perfume of old, passed centuries ; he would wander in the once fashionable quarters of the town, now fallen from grace, and imagine the days when they were full of sedan chairs and elegant ladies.

His love for the faded, the graceful, vanished past, grew and solaced him. How many of his poems seem to be merely efforts to reproduce it, and so dwell in it for a few minutes! Side by side with these imaginative pleasures were others. He began to see nature, real nature, as it is even to-day. His walks in the suburbs gave him Albert Samain 67 many a picture which he turned to account later in Aux Flancs du Vase.

The splendid, differing sun- sets gave him infinite pleasure ; sometimes he would get into one of the bateaux mouches which go up and down the river, and watch the yellows and reds of the sunset repeat themselves in the water. He had none of that modern spirit which enables one to see beauties in tram-cars and smoking chimneys, so he eliminated them from his thought. In love with beauty as he conceived it, he took the changing colours which all sorts of weather threw over Paris, and, eternal as they are, lit his pictures of other centuries with them.

He speaks of "la suavite supreme de Paris d'Automne;" the frail gold of Autumn always pleased him. He describes dark gardens where the fountains "font un bruit maigre, frileux et comme desole dans l'abandon du crepus- cule. Flowers were the only luxury he permitted 68 Six French Poets himself. Except and this is the great "except" his imagination. His room was as bare as a cell in a monastery, neither painting nor engraving hung on the walls. But listen to the room he would have had if — evoking it to amuse himself on an Autumn even- ing : "My room.

Hung with velvet of steel- coloured grey, with blue lights in it. The rose- tinted ceiling fades off into mauve and has a large decorative design — Renaissance — in old silver, embossed at the corners. Hangings hide the door. No windows ; the room only being used by artificial light. Near the floor, forming a base-board, a band of old silver openwork appliqued on the same velvet as the hangings, a flower design, with knots of pink pearl tassels at intervals.

A carpet with a silver nap ; against one side of the wall, a divan of steel-grey velvet. No movable furniture. In one corner, directly under the bosses of the ceiling, an ebony table with silver lion's claws for feet ; the table is covered with a cloth of steel-grey velvet, with a great silver tulip with rose-coloured leaves embroidered in the corner. An Etruscan armchair, made entirely of ebony, with silver nails. Negli- gently thrown over the armchair to soften the sharpness of the angles and the hardness of the wood, a grey bear skin.

A lamp of old silver, mas- sive and slender, with a long neck of a clear shape, and without ornament. Shade of faded moss-rose Albert Samain 69 colour. Blotting pad of steel-grey morocco, with a heraldic device ; a penholder of old gold. Books : Corbiere, Mallarme, Fleurs du Mai, in small folios, bound in white pigskin and tied with cords of rose- colour and silver, edges of old gold, titles printed in Roman letters, crude red on the top and on the left side. A fireplace with a historical plaque over it — Renaissance, and andirons of wrought steel termi- nating in couched chimeras.

Three sides of the room are empty. In the corner opposite the table, on the wall, two metres from the ground, a console covered with steel-grey velvet supported by a Renais- sance chimera in iron. Upon the console, a great horn of crystal, very tapering, in which are two roses, one rose a sulphur yellow, one wine- coloured.

In an alcove hidden by a curtain is a deep niche, bathed in the half-light of a gold altar lamp hanging by a little chain. The globe of the lamp is made of pieces of many-coloured glass cut in facets so that they shine like great stones : ruby, sapphire, emerald. In the niche, which is hung with crimson velvet, on a column with a Doric capital, stands the Young Faun of Praxiteles.

Yet Samain never complained of the ugliness and meagreness of actual life. He only played his games on windy nights in his bare room. It would be unjust to Samain to represent him as passing all his evenings wrapped in sugary 70 Six French Poets dreams. He studied science, history, philosophy. It is a curious fact, that he was one of the first men in France to recognize the genius of Nietzsche. In compensation for the many bitternesses of his life, beginning in came the happiness of two friendships.

Samain made the acquaintance, and quickly became the intimate friend, of Paul Morisse and Raymond Bonheur. Paul Morisse was a con- stant traveller, and with him Samain made his first considerable journey. The two friends went to Germany. They saw the Rhine, Bingen, Mayence, etc. Samain was charmed with all he saw. He possessed the gift of wonder ; an inestimable pos- session, by the way. Unfortunately it was hard to find money for these excursions. Samain called the lack of money "the defective side" of his life.

When the French Academy crowned his first book, he gave himself the present of a month at Lake Annecy. So at last we reach his first book, privately printed in , when the poet had passed his thirty-fifth birthday.

L'amour courtois en tant que discours courtois sur l'amour (II)

At this time the Mercure de France had just come into existence, and Samain was one of its founders. It was in the pages of the Mercure that most of- his poems appeared. Samain never seems to have seriously considered collecting them into a book. Over-diffident and self -critical, he worked at them, Albert Samain 71 changed them, polished them. At rare intervals one was printed. Samain was in love with perfection, and very little that he did ever seemed to him worthy to leave his hands.

This excessive scrupulousness works both ways. A poem so treated gains in beauty, but frequently loses in vitality. There is great danger of its becoming a thing of mummied splendour. That Samain's poems absolutely lost vigour by this polishing, I cannot fairly say. The poems I have seen in several states do seem to have gained technically in their final one, and to have parted with practically none of their original elan. Elan is too strong a word. Samain's poems are never dashing with life. Let us say rather, not that his poems lost by his treatment of them, but that the kind of man who could so treat them was of a slightly depressed, unvital temper.

How consider- able a course of discipline he put them through can be imagined when I mention that, in the four ver- sions extant of a poem of twenty-eight lines, only four which were in the first version appear in the last. But to return to that first volume. At the in- stance of M. Bonheur, Samain consented to print it. Not publish it, observe. It was issued in a charm- ing, privately printed edition. This was in October, And in the Journal for the 15th of March, , appeared a review of it by no less a person than Francois Coppee.

How the volume came into 72 Six French Poets Coppee's hands I do not know, but he instantly recognized its value and said so frankly. Five months of reviewing and praise in the young reviews had not been able to do for Samain what the hun- dred lines from Francois Coppee did at once. It was celebrity, almost fame. The little, privately printed edition was quickly exhausted. Another was called for, and at last the book, Au Jar din de l' Infante, was published. Still Samain was diffident, and when a third edition was needed, he hesitated again ; but the third edition came out three years after the first.

The edition I have is marked "twenty- fifth," so it appears that Samain was un- necessarily timid. The book was given a prize by the French Academy, and Samain was one of the poets of the hour. There was nothing very new in Au Jar din de l' 'Infante, it is true. The metre was the classic alexandrine, for the most part, varied by lighter, gayer rhythms equally well sanctioned. But the book was full of the shy, delicate personality of the poet. Here were his sumptuous imaginings, and the haunting sadness which never quite left him.

Here was his tenderness for lovely, fragile things ; his preoccupation with the past. Finally here was his love for English — the volume bore this motto from Edgar Allan Poe : Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight — Was it not Fate whose name is also Sorrow Albert Samain 73 That bade me pause before that garden-gate To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses?

The following poem is printed in italics as a sort of dedication to the book : Mon ame est une infante en robe de parade, Dont l'exil se reflete, eternel et royal, Aux grands miroirs deserts d'un vieil Escurial, Ainsi qu'une galere oubliee en la rade. Aux pieds de son fauteuil, allonges noblement, Deux levriers d'Ecosse aux yeux melancoliques Chassent, quand il lui plait, les betes symboliques Dans la foret du Reve et de 1'Enchantement. Le pare alentour d'elle etend ses frondaisons, Ses marbres, ses bassins, ses rampes a balustres ; Et, grave, elle s'enivre a ces songes illustres Que recelent pour nous les nobles horizons.

Elle est la resignee, et douce, et sans surprise, Sachant trop pour lutter comme tout est fatal, Et se sent ant, malgre quelque dedain natal, Sensible a la pitie comme l'onde a la brise. Des soirs trop lourds de pourpre ou sa fierte soupire, Les portraits de Van Dyck aux beaux doigts longs et purs, Pales en velours noir sur l'or vieilli des murs, En leurs grands airs defunts la font rever d'empire.

Les vieux mirages d'or ont dissipe son deuil, Et dans les visions ou son ennui s'echappe, Soudain — gloire ou soleil — un rayon qui la frappe Allume en elle tous les rubis de l'orgueil. Mais d'un sourire triste elle apaise ces fievres ; Et, redoutant la foule aux tumultes de fer, Elle ecoute la vie — au loin — comme la mer. Et le secret se fait plus profond sur ses levres. Rien n'emeut d'un frisson l'eau pale de ses yeux, Ou s'est assis l'Esprit voile des Villes mortes ; Et par les salles, ou sans bruit tournent les portes, Elle va, s'enchantant de mots mysterieux.

L'eau vaine des jets d'eau la-bas tombe en cascade, Et, pale a la croisee, une tulipe aux doigts, Elle est la, reflet ee aux miroirs d'autrefois, Ainsi qu'une galere oubliee en la rade. Mon Ame est une infante en robe de parade. Albert Samain 75 Who, after reading that poem, could approach the book in other than a sympathetic mood? Is it by chance that he figures his soul under the guise of a Spanish Infanta ; or does he feel in him- self something exotic, un-French, something which is descended to him from those possible Spanish ancestors? This poem seems almost a complete epitome of Samain's soul.

An old, magnificent splendour is here, all about his seated, quiescent Infanta, " im- mobile, une tulipe aux doigts. Yes, Samain has paraphrased himself in this poem — the haughty, noble, anachronistic self, hidden under the appearance of an insignificant government employee. This introduction is followed by a second motto from Mallarme : " D'une essence ravie aux vieillesses des roses," and then we come to the book itself.

J6 Six French Poets Des roses! Des roses encor! Je les adore a la souff ranee. Elles ont la sombre attirance Des choses qui donnent la mort. Le pare est sombre comme un gouffre. Et e'est dans mon cceur orageux Comme un mal de douceur qui souffre. These poems are as fragile as the golden crystals he speaks of. What do they give us? It is impos- sible to say. A nuance, a colour, a vague magnifi- cence. Ecoute la symphonie ; Rien n'est doux comme une agonie Dans la musique indefmie Qu'exhale un lointain vaporeux; D'une langueur la nuit s'enivre, Et notre cceur qu'elle delivre Du monotone effort de vivre Se meurt d'un trepas langoureux.

Albert S amain 77 Glissons entre le ciel et l'onde, Glissons sous la lune profonde ; Toute mon ame, loin du monde, S'est refugiee en tes yeux, Et je regarde tes prunelles Se pamer sous les chanterelles, Comme deux fleurs surnaturelles Sous un rayon melodieux. L'abat-jour transparent de rose s'illumine. La vitre est noire sous l'averse monotone. La ville est loin. Plus rien qu'un bruit sourd de voitures Qui meurt, melancolique, aux plis lourds des tentures. Formons des reves fins sur des miniatures. Les fleurs revent, l'amour se parfume aux corolles.

Tiede, la lune monte au firmament pali. Ce soir, fete a Bergame au palais Lanzoli! Les couples enlaces descendent des gondoles. Le bal s'ouvre, etoile de roses girandoles. Flutes et cordes, l'orchestre est conduit par Lulli. Les madrigaux parmi les robes essaimees Offrent, la levre en cceur, leurs fadeurs sublimees ; Et, sur le glacis d'or des parquets transparents, Les caillettes Regence, exquisement vieillotes, Detaillent la langueur savante des gavottes Au rhythme parfume des eventails mourants.

Notice how deftly the poet places his picture by speaking of Bergamo and the Lanzoli Palace. And bringing in Lulli as a rhyme, is a delightful thing. Not Verlaine him- self has done a more beautiful eighteenth century picture, nor one which sings more gracefully. Est-ce a Venise, a Florence? Est-ce au pays d'Esperance? Est-ce dans l'lle-de-France? Qui sait? Viens, tu verras des bergeres, Des marquises bocageres, Des moutons blancs d'etageres, Et puis Des oiseaux et des oiselles, Des Lindors et des Angeles, Et des roses aux margelles Des puits.

Les Iris, et les Estelles En chaperons de dentell R6vent pres des cascatelles En pleurs, Et fermant leurs grandes ailes Les papillons epris d'elles En deviennent infideles Aux fleurs. Unis d'une double etreinte Les Amants rodent, sans crainte, Aux detours du labyrinthe Secret. Sur le jardin diaphane Un demi-silence plane, Ou toute rumeur profane Mourrait. Avec des amours sans fraude, Des yeux d'ambre et d'emeraude Et de lents propos que brode L'aveu. Albert Samain 81 Le soir tombe. Des cygnes voguent par troupes.

On goute sur l'herbe en groupes ; Le dessert choque les coupes D'or fin. Les assiettes sont de Sevres ; Et les madrigaux, si mievres, Caramelisent les levres Sans fin. L'apres-midi qui renie L'ivresse du jour bannie Expire en une infinie Langueur. Le toit des chaumieres fume, Et dans le ciel qui s'embrume L'argent des astres s'allume, Songeur. Les amants disent leurs flammes, Les yeux fideles des femmes Sont si purs qu'on voit leurs ames Au fond ; 82 Six French Poets Et, deux a deux, angeliques, Les Baisers melancoliques Au bleu pays des reliques S'en vont. Au son des musiques lentes, Les Amoureuses dolentes Ralentissent, nonchalantes, Le pas.

Du ciel flotte sur la terre ; Et, dans le soir solitaire, L'angelus tinte a Cythere, La-bas. The whole volume is full of delicate, almost arti- ficial, light and shade ; bells ring over still lakes, roses in cut glass vases mirror themselves in the marble tops of tables, silken skirts brush over polished floors, but — in the distance, everything is in the distance. The poet himself, kind, patient, sad, is always by our side assuring us that it is only his soul, ''en robe de parade.

No one understands better than Samain how to give the emotion, the grandeur, or the tragedy, of an epoch, in the confines of a sonnet. Jadis elle regnait ; sur ses murailles fortes La Victoire etendait ses deux ailes de fer. Tous les peuples d'Asie assiegeaient ses cent portes ; Et ses grands escaliers descendaient vers la mer. Vide a present, et pour jamais silencieuse, Pierre a pierre, elle meurt, sous la lune pieuse, Aupres de son vieux fleuve ainsi qu'elle 6puis6 Et, seul, un elephant de bronze, en ces desastres, Droit encore au sommet d'un portique brise, Leve tragiquement sa trompe vers les astres.

Or this, which seems, in its fourteen lines, to give both sides of Napoleon's character so that no more need be said. Napoleon, sending to Corsica for his old nurse, so that she might be present at his Coro- nation, is one of those strange beauties which start up along his career. Mon fils! Sur tous les fronts baisses un seul frisson courut, Comme le battement soudain d'une aile immense ; Et Ton n'entendit plus, 6 Cesar triomphant, Dans la nef ou planait un auguste silence, Qu'une vieille a genoux qui pleurait son enfant.

There are still two more poems which I must quote. They tell more about his poetry than any words of mine can do. The first is Dilection, and enumerates the subjects he prefers : DILECTION J'adore l'indecis, les sons, les couleurs freles, Tout ce qui tremble, ondule, et frissonne, et chatoie ; Les cheveux et les yeux, l'eau, les feuilles, la soie, Et la spiritualite des formes greles ; Les rimes se frolant comme des tourterelles, La fumee ou le songe en spirales tournoie, La chambre au crepuscule, ou Son profil se noie, Et la caresse de Ses mains surnaturelles ; Albert S amain 85 L'heure de ciel au long des levres calinee, L'ame comme d'un poids de delice inclinee, L'ame qui meurt ainsi qu'une rose fanee, Et tel coeur d'ombre chaste, embaume de mystere, Ou veille, comme le rubis d'un lampadaire, Nuit et jour, un amour mystique et solitaire.

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