LIX - The Isle of Portland
The star-filled seas are smooth to-night
  
From France to England strown;
Black towers above the 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 ever you found the day.
A.E. Housman, A Shropshire Lad
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