A Shropshire Lad
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A Shropshire Lad
The Isle of Portland
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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. |
 When I came last to Ludlow |
 Now hollow fires burn out to black |