BREAK, BREAK, BREAKBy Alfred TennysonBREAK, break, break,On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!

And I would that my tongue could utterThe 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 onTo 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 deadWill never come back to me.

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