From "A West Shire Lad".


     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