Break, Break, Break By Alfred Lord Tennyson

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.

Thy : your
Bay : part of the sea, partly surrounded by sea
Haven : shelter
Vanished :disappeared
Crag : rough mass of rock

ALFRED LORD TENNYSON

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