Alfred Edward Housman (Àëüôðåä Ýäâàðä Õàóñìàí)

The Isle Of Portland

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.

1. This Time Of Year A Twelvemonth Past
2. The Day Of Battle
3. Loitering With A Vacant Eye
4. Tell Me Not Here, It Needs Not Saying
5. Hell's Gate

Ðàñïå÷àòàòü ñòèõîòâîðåíèå (Poem to print)

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