« I was going away, my fists in my burst pockets;
My overcoat also became ideal;
I was going under the sky, Muse! and I was your faithful;
Oh! there! there! what splendid loves I have dreamed!

My only breeches had a large hole.

• Little Tom Thumb dreamer, I was counting rhymes in my race. My inn was at the Grande-Ourse.
• My stars in the sky had a soft rustle

And I listened to them, sitting at the edge of the roads,
Those good September evenings when I felt drops
Of dew on my forehead, like a wine of vigor;

Where, rhyming in the middle of fantastic shadows,
Like lyres, I pulled the elastics
Of my wounded shoes, one foot near my heart! » (Arthur Rimbaud)