I do not feel obliged to believe that the same God who has endowed us with sense, reason, and intellect has intended us to forgo their use.
The Isle Of Portland
by A. E. Housman
The star-filled seas are smooth tonight
From France to England strown;
Black towers above 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 you ever found the day.