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The Isle of Portland

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. . A. E. Housman

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