prostrate

Mis à jour: 16 mai 2025

The blooming babe, with shades of Death o'erspread, No more shall smile, no more shall raise its head; But like a branch that from the tree is torn, Falls prostrate, wither'd, languid, and forlorn. «Where flies my James» 'tis thus I seem to hear The parent ask, «Some angel tell me where He whings his passage thro' the yielding air»?

Henri Grégoire - De la littérature des nègres, ou Recherches sur leurs facultés intellectuelles, leurs qualités morales et leur littérature