Break, Break, Break / Lord Alfred Tennyson

  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.