ON A BRETON CEMETERY

            They sleep well here,
                        These fisher-folk who passed their stormy 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 life away
                        From day to market-day;
            As one should tell
                        Dimly, mechanically,
                        Some poor, sad rosary.

            And now night falls;
                        Me, passion-tossed and driven from pillar to post,
                        A poor worn ghost,
            This sleepy pasture calls,
                        And dear dead people with wan hands
                        Beckon me to their lands.

                                                                                                ERNEST DOWSON

PONT-AVEN, FINISTÈRE, 1896