IT is at morning twilight they expire;
Death takes in hand, when midnight sounds,
Millions of bodies in their beds,
And scarcely anybody thinks of it ...
NO water has abiding dwelling-place
Within one feeble hollow of the earth,
Which with the sky is face to face.
Let the noon glow, and the wind blow,
AT the black foot of trellises, by almond-branches shaded,
At the heart of corbeils, at the breast of bowers,
And all along the loam of avenues,
Are fallen faded,
HERE, before me, the lamp, the paper;
And behind me this troubled day
Passed in myself
IT is an inn there is
At the cross-roads of Chétives-Maisons,
In the land where it is always cold.