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Garde ton charme si puissant! Ton parfum de plante sauvage! Laisse les bijoux, O Passant, A celles que le temps ravage! Avec ta guitare a ton cou, Va, par la France et par l'Espagne! Suis ton chemin; je ne sais ou.... Par la plaine et par la montagne! Passe, comme la plume au vent! Comme le son de ta mandore! Comme un flot qui baise en revant, Les flancs d'une barque sonore!
"J'ai quitte mon pays et mes amis, Pour jouer de la guitare, Qui va clin, clin, qui va clin, clin, Qui va clin, clin, clin, clin." "Ha! my wee wee friend," said Clara Hope, "are you here? I was just thinking of you, just wishing for you. By gude luck, have you the weeny locket about you that the young lady gave you this morning? the weeny locket, my bonny boy?" "Plait-il?" said little Louis.
Eustache Deschamp, Joachim du Bellay, Ronsard, the delightful La Fontaine, the delightful but appalling Villon, Victor Hugo's "Guitare," Madame Desbordes-Valmore's lines on the little girl and her pillow, as dear little verses about a child as ever were written these and many others comforted me much, as I read them in head-net and gauntlets, sitting on a log by an unknown river in the Amazonian forest.
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