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.
http://www.online-literature.com/tennyson/709/
|