Break, break, break
On the cold gray stones, OSea
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 van-ished hand
And the sound of a voice that is still!
Break, break, break
At the foot of thy crags, OSea
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me