Poem by Ernest Christopher Dowson

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. To a Lady Asking Foolish Questions
2. Yvonne of Brittany
3. Ad Manus Puellae
4. Exchanges
5. Nuns of the Perpetual Adoration

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