story hub logo

Story Hub


Become Member:

OR

Break, Break, Break


Break, break, break,
On thy cold grey stones, O sea!
And I would that my tounge 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 hills,
But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, Break, break,
At thy foot of the crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead,
Will never come back to me.


WRITTEN BY : ALFRED  LORD TENNYSON        SUBMITTED BY : AMBUJ SONI



 Please Give your ratings to poem...
 
 
 

                                    
 


Give your comments here...