Break, Break, Break
by Alfred Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)

Break, break, break,
         On thy cold gray 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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