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.