Le soir au coin du feu, j’ai pensé bien des fois
À la mort d’un oiseau, quelque part, dans les bois.
Pendant les tristes jours de l’hiver monotone,
Les pauvres nids déserts, les nids qu’on abandonne,
Se balancent au vent sous un ciel gris de fer.
Oh ! comme les oiseaux doivent mourir l’hiver ![..]
La rose du jardin que j’avais méprisée
À cause de son simple et modeste contour,
Sans se baigner d’azur, sans humer la rosée,
Dans le vase, captive, a vécu plus d’un jour.[..]
Saviez-vous que l’épigramme était le plus court des genres littéraires ? Découvrez ma sélection d’épigrammes d’auteurs et mes écrits personnels.
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