| Break, Break, Break... Alfred, Lord Tennyson... |
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Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me. |
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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! |
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And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still! |
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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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