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 sailer 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 the voice that is still!
Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of the day that is dead
Will never come back to me.
Alfred Lord Tennyson