BREAK, BREAK, BREAK.

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 signs 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.



( 1833) Break, break, break by Alfred Tennyson from the collection Poems 
( from the second- volume edition) published in 1842.

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