Break, Break, Break
Alfred Lord Tennyson
1809 to 1892
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Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.
O, well for fisherman's boy,
That he shouts with his sister play!
O, well for the sailor lad,
That sings in his boat on the bay!
And the 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, Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that dead
Will never come back to me.