BREAK, BREAK, BREAK. ALFRED TENNYSON.
Reading edition
For a sketch of the life of Tennyson, see Book V, page 102.
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.