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.