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
vanished 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
Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)