Poems by Charles Vildrac

IT is at morning twilight they expire;
Death takes in hand, when midnight sounds,
Millions o...

NO water has abiding dwelling-place
Within one feeble hollow of the earth,
Which with the sky ...

AT the black foot of trellises, by almond-branches shaded,
At the heart of corbeils, at the b...

HERE, before me, the lamp, the paper;
And behind me this troubled day
Passed in myself
Fol...

IT is an inn there is
At the cross-roads of Ché tives-Maisons,
In the land where it is ...

MAN whom I work for, I am angry with you;
But not because you pay me to possess
My loveliest ...

THIS was indeed a spot where sickly earth
Was poorly clad;
Roads strewn with slag, and gather...

HOPING for nothing, to walk through the streets,
This is a better fate than men believe,
Bec...