Break, break, break
- 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 for 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 imposing
To their haven under the hill
But O for the touch of a vanished 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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