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 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.
