In A Breton Cemetery

A poem by Ernest Christopher Dowson

They sleep well here,
These fisher-folk who passed their anxious days
In fierce Atlantic ways;
And found not there,
Beneath the long curled wave,
So quiet a grave.

And they sleep well
These peasant-folk, who told their lives away,
From day to market-day,
As one should tell,
With patient industry,
Some sad old rosary.

And now night falls,
Me, tempest-tost, and driven from pillar to post,
A poor worn ghost,
This quiet pasture calls;
And dear dead people with pale hands
Beckon me to their lands.

Reader Comments

Tell us what you think of 'In A Breton Cemetery' by Ernest Christopher Dowson

comments powered by Disqus

Home | Search | About this website | Contact | Privacy Policy