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Break, Break, Break by Alfred Lord 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.