The Isle of Portland

by A. E. Housman
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.