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
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