A. E. Housman: The Isle of Portland

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.