59
The Isle 'Tween the Lands
The seas, with stars, are smooth this night
From France to Our Land strown;
Black spires that rise from that isle light
The jail-bird dug-up stone.
And on that isle, not for to rise,
No more to stir forth free,
Far from his folk a dead lad lies
That once was friends with me.
Lie you in peace, dream you light,
And sleep you fast for aye;
And may you find more luck by night
Than you had found by day.
-- A.E. House Man