32 BREAK，BREAK，BREAK

By Alfred 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 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．