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.
