Break, break, break, <br />On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! <br />And I would that my tongue could utter <br />The thoughts that arise in me. <br /> <br />O, well for the fisherman's boy, <br />That he shouts with his sister at play! <br />O, well for the sailor lad, <br />That he sings in his boat on the bay! <br /> <br />And the stately ships go on <br />To their haven under the hill; <br />But O for the touch of a vanished hand, <br />And the sound of a voice that is still! <br /> <br />Break, break, break, <br />At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! <br />But the tender grace of a day that is dead <br />Will never come back to me.<br /><br />Alfred Lord Tennyson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/break-break-break-2/
