Ernest Christopher Dowson (Эрнест Кристофер Доусон)

In a Breton Cemetery

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. 

1. Quid Non Supremus, Amantes?
2. Epigram
3. Vain Resolves
4. Villanelle of Marguerite's
5. Soli Cantare Periti Arcades

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