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Break, break, break!
by
Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Break, break, break On thy cold grey stones, O Sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me O well for the fisherman's boy That he shouts with his sister at play! O well for the sailor lad That he sings in his boat on the bay! And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand And the sound of a voice that is still! Break, break, break At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me
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