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.