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..