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.

Webpage © 2002 ELC
Lane Core Jr. (
Created November 13, 2002; not revised.