The Isle Of Portland

Alfred Edward 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.

Next 10 Poems

• Alfred Edward Housman : The Lads In Their Hundreds
• Alfred Edward Housman : The Lads In Their Hundreds To Ludlow Come In For The Fair
• Alfred Edward Housman : The Laws Of God, The Laws Of Man
• Alfred Edward Housman : The Lent Lily
• Alfred Edward Housman : The Merry Guide
• Alfred Edward Housman : The New Mistress
• Alfred Edward Housman : The Rainy Pleiads Wester
• Alfred Edward Housman : The Recruit
• Alfred Edward Housman : The Stinging Nettle
• Alfred Edward Housman : The Street Sounds To The Soldiers' Tread

Previous 10 Poems

• Alfred Edward Housman : The Immortal Part
• Alfred Edward Housman : The Grizzly Bear
• Alfred Edward Housman : The Fairies Break Their Dances
• Alfred Edward Housman : The Day Of Battle
• Alfred Edward Housman : The Chestnut Casts His Flambeaux
• Alfred Edward Housman : The Carpenter's Son
• Alfred Edward Housman : Terence, This Is Stupid Stuff
• Alfred Edward Housman : Tell Me Not Here, It Needs Not Saying
• Alfred Edward Housman : Stars
• Alfred Edward Housman : Shot? So Quick, So Clean An Ending?