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Updated: May 27, 2025
Mon ame est l'arbre ou tous les soirs, comme elles, De blancs essaims de folles visions Tombent des cieux, en palpitant des ailes, Pour s'envoler des les premiers rayons. Finally, the effort to detach poetry from the inner world and make it an expression of outer things, is incompatible with its musical character.
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