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 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.