The Isle Of Portland by A. E. Housman
The star-filled seas are smooth tonight From France to England strown; Black towers above Portland light The felon-quarried stone.
On yonder island; not to rise, Never to stir forth free, Far from his folk a dead lad lies That once was friends with me.
Lie you easy, dream you light, And sleep you fast for aye; And luckier may you find the night Than you ever found the day.
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