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 | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AN ODE TO THE FRAMERS OF THE FRAME BILL by GEORGE GORDON BYRON THE ARGUMENT OF HIS BOOK by ROBERT HERRICK THYESTES, ACT 2: CHORUS by LUCIUS ANNAEUS SENECA ODES II, 10 by QUINTUS HORATIUS FLACCUS SEADRIFT by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH |