Break, Break, Break
| Break, Break, Break |
|
-
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.
(1842)
|
|
