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 the 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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A LITTLE GIRL'S PRAYER by KATHERINE MANSFIELD NICHARCHUS UPON PHIDON HIS DOCTOR by EZRA POUND TREKKING THE HILLS OF NORTHERN THAILAND by KAREN SWENSON THE COUNTRY FAITH by NORMAN ROWLAND GALE THE BALLAD OF EAST AND WEST by RUDYARD KIPLING LEE TO THE REAR [MAY 12, 1864] by JOHN REUBEN THOMPSON ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH |