Break, break, break,
On thy cold grey
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
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.
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