“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.”
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